So Lovely So Sorrowful: Houses of Healing
by Mallorn Took
Summary: CHAPTER 10 REDONE! Faramir and Eowyn, both wounded in the struggle againt the forces of Sauron meet and eventually fall in love in the Houses of Healing. Can Faramir's love make Eowyn forget Aragorn and force the shadow of despair that hangs over her....
1. Faramir

6-28-04: I am in the process of self editing, looking back on my writing with a new perspective.  
  
Author's Note: I shall try to keep this short and sweet (this note) which may prove impossible for me who loves to ramble on quite pointlessly. This is an ode to the romance of Eowyn and Faramir. This is told from Faramir's point of view and I strive to remain as close to the text as ever. Most quotes are directly from the book though may be elaborated on. I plan on adding more, some even from Eowyn's point of view. I am terribly sorry for the punctuation and grammatical errors I know exist, grammar is not exactly one of my strong points. Read and review, if you please.  
  
Lauren  
  
And much to my dismay I own nothing, least of which is my beloved Faramir who I wish was mine every time I read about him. Alas it can not be so as he does not exist and belongs to Eowyn. Sigh.  
  
Faramir  
  
For an endless time, for what seemed to be eternity I wandered in the valley of death, so near to falling into the black abyss of ceasing to be. They called my name. My sires, my forebearers of the line of the Stewards of Gondor were beckoning me. I glimpsed the sorrowful look of my mother Finduilas whose image has long grown hazy in my memory, whose face I scarcely can recall. She said nothing save pleading with me to endure, to turn away from the shadow of death.  
  
Boromir.  
  
I saw my brother, not as he appeared in the elven boat ere the winds drew him into the sea but as he was in life, full of vigor and strength. He clasped his horn, whole once again and was clad in the elven cloak of a grey hue that I found his lifeless, limp body wrapped in. He spoke to me.  
  
"Brother, brother," he called, "be not afraid. Do not turn to death quite yet for there is work yet to be done. Return, younger brother, for our father needs you, Minas Tirith needs you, Gondor needs you."  
  
Then as swiftly as he arrived he departed, giving one last blow on his mighty horn, passed down through the ages from generation to generation to the eldest son of each Steward.  
  
I would know nothing of the deeds of my father, of the desperate fight on Pelennor Fields if it had not been told to me. I am told that just as Mithrandir carried my body, plagued by a fever that would not abate from my father's pyre, I cried out to my father. I called for him, the man who scorned my judgment, lamenting over the lose of Boromir. It was his disdain for me that had driven me on the errand, suicide though it may have seemed. I recalled what Mithrandir said to me, as I saddled my horse to ride into the growing darkness.  
  
"Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end," he said.  
  
I was silent, doubting his words, the words of one so wise, the words of one my father accused me of giving all my love to. Nay, my father did not love me, he had love only for my brother, though dead he may be. And I had no love for him, no love for his criticism, no love for his condemning of my yearning for knowledge and lore. Yet I cried out for him, just as I stood, faltering between life and death. In the deepest confines of my soul, with every scorn of my father buried deeper, there resides a love for him, a foundation none can shake. For though for countless years I endured his cruelty, his mockery, there remained a love for him, in the depths of my heart. I only regret that I never could tell him ere the end.  
  
All was onyx, at last the torment of the voices had ceased, they had left me alone to die in the shadow, utterly alone. Fear had passed, I no longer dreaded death, actually yearned for it to take me away from the suffocating, pure darkness. It had been long since I had felt pain, I was numb, resigned to my approaching death. All I was aware of was the beat of my heart and with each shaky breath I drew I wondered if it would be my last, expected it to be my last. I was beyond the reach of any mortal, not deceased, yet not living. It was over.  
  
"Faramir, Faramir, Faramir."  
  
A voice came from the abyss that surrounded me, beckoning me. This time, however, it was not calling me to my ultimate demise but to life, to the pain and suffering of life.  
  
Sweet air, air from a time when all was young, I deem, filled my lungs and with each sharp intake of breath the utter ebony pressing down upon me dimmed ever so slightly until gradually I saw light. I opened up my grey eyes, my vision still hazy, my perception still flawed, and I beheld my healer, my king.  
  
"My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?" I asked, my voice catching in my throat.  
  
"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake," he said to me, his grey gaze beholding me, pity stirring in it. "You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return."  
  
"I will, lord," I said. "For who would lie idle when the king as returned?" At this fatigue overwhelmed me and once more I closed my eyes but this time to blissful dreams not the paths to afterlife. Ere sleep carried me away I heard the voice of my king one last time.  
  
"Farewell then for a while."  
  



	2. Eowyn

Thus the mental battle, the battle of healing continues but this time it is Eowyn struggling to overcome her despair.   
  
Author's Note: Hm, hm I just love foreshadowing. I hope everyone catchs my not so subtle foreshadowing! Again grammer and puncation are not my strong points thus I shall probably burn in the specail part of hell reserved for writers who make their work quite... well, flawed. Alas, it is my fate and since I have to desire to teach English (oh the horror) and since editors are just lovely I shall not correct this flaw but I shall confess, purging my soul: I can't spell or use commas correctly! There. (I just love to be all goofy with long words!)  
  
Thanks to all my reviewers. I took heed to your advice. I love you all and would kiss you but I have quite a bad bout of "The Common Cold."  
  
Read and review (as always) Lauren  
  
Chapter 2 Eowyn  
  
He clasped my hand, his face stained with tears, blood and filth. There was joy in his eyes, through tears I had not seen on his face since the death of our mother.   
  
ÒEowyn, Eowyn,Ó he choked, bowing his blonde head.   
  
ÒEomer! What joy is this? For they said that you were slain. Nay, but that was only the dark voices in my dream. How long have a been dreaming?Ó I asked, my breathing labored, my left arm still crippled and broken, and I reached up with my right arm, once numb, scarred by my final stroke at the Witch King and touched his cheek, the rough stubble of his sandy beard beneath my fingers.   
  
ÒNot long, my sister, not long,Ó he murmured, grasping my pale fingers, bringing them to his lips in a gentle kiss. ÒI thought I had lost you. That there was none left in the world for me, no kin. That I was utterly alone. But you live and it is no dream. Eowyn, sister, tell me this is not the workings of a fatigued, sorrowful mind. I could not endure it, could not bear it,Ó Eomer muttered.  
  
ÒNay, if is no illusion, no deception your drowsy eyes are playing on you, nor mine,Ó said I, my voice barely audible, cracking and breaking with emotion. Slowly, stuttering at first I asked the question that had haunted me since all went to shadow, all to total, complete umbra. ÒBut tell me, what of the King of the Mark?Ó  
  
At this Eomer turned, staring out the window, not daring to meet my gaze.   
  
ÒAlas! Do no tell me that it was a dream; for I know it was not. He is dead as he foresaw.Ó I said, contemplating anew what I already new but couldnÕt believe, what IÕd never let myself dwell on in my time of almost certain death. For that was what it was. I felt in my heart my approaching demise and even death did not shake the foundation of my will. Had I not gone riding into battle, seeking mortal peril, aching to be remembered as a doer of great deed, having won renown all the while blissfully sleeping under the earth? Alas, I still breathed, still lived... and that fact itself weighed down heavily upon my heart.   
  
I viewed him, tall and clad in grey, possessing a great power, that though veiled, I sensed, as my salvation. I believed myself to be in love with him, and I cogitate that I still am. But my savior he was not. In truth he was little different than all the other men I have encountered in my life, perceiving me as strong and fair, I deem, able to withstand the anguish of battle but should not be forced to endure it. How they fail to understand me, oh, how they visualize the opposite of what I hold in my heart! In truth, thoughts of battle and possibly death are appealing to me, something I wish to taste. Alas. Oh, what I would give to be laid beside my uncle in the highest glory, a serene look upon my pale face, to be remembered as a woman of valor and courage beyond the match of any male.   
  
ÒEowyn?Ó Eomer asks, clutching my hand, as if he is afraid I will slip away, like sand sifting through his fingers. ÒEowyn, Lord Aragorn, your healer, said a queer thing.Ó   
  
Wordlessly I nodded, pulling my hand away.   
  
ÒHe spoke of other healing that even he, with the blood of the ancient kings of Gondor coursing through his veins and with the hands of a healer, can not give you,Ó Eomer whispered, as if petrified to see of what effect his words, or rather AragornÕs, would have on me.   
  
ÒWhat do you image this other healing he can not, will not, give me is?Ó I asked, my voice almost descending into mockery for I knew of what he spoke of. Love.   
  
ÒItÕs... itÕs love,Ó he sighed. ÒNot the love of a brother, or an uncle, or a father but the compassion of another man. Someone who will give you the will to live, fair sister.Ó  
  
ÒAnd who shall this man be, brother?Ó I cried, leaning forward in my fury. ÒIf the one man I love, or thought I loved, can not give me this healing then who else is there? Who else could possible love me? Or rather, who else could l love?Ó  
  
ÒSomeone will come, little sister, and he will come unlooked for at a time when you least expected. And he will deliver you, he will be your salvation, not Lord Aragorn, however noble he may be. And you will love him, sister, more than I, more than Theoden King, more than anyone,Ó Eomer said. With that he rose, urging me to rest my weary eyes for my ordeal must have been exhausting and much to endure. He bent down and brushed his lips against my brow. ÒI love you, dear sister and my heart overflows with joy to see you alive,Ó he said and then strode out of the room, leaving me alone with my emotions.  
  
Once I was alone, as I had been many times before, as the moon rose and stars loomed over me, I began to cry. And cry I did, tears streaming down my face, salty, tangy tears staining my face, scarring me. The Battle of Pelennor Fields was over but I still had much to suffer.   
  
So I cried. 


	3. Faramir

Author's note: Hell-o once again. Thank you for all the lovely reviews! Again I shall burn in hell becasue I lack the abilty to spell. Thank Valar and Eru for spell check!  
  
Warning: Contains MOME (pronounce Mommy) Moments Of Manly Emotion.   
  
Chapter 3  
  
Faramir   
  
I have sensed it for a time, the hushed whispers, the sighs and veiled laments I am exposed to every time I venture near my fatherÕs name, which is not often as it is a difficult subject to brooch. I am no fool, his death could not be shrouded from me long but there is much none would tell me, exchanging glances, begging me to rest a while. But I will not, can not, close my eyes. For to sleep is to let my mind wander, to contemplate, to analyze all I know, driving my self mad.   
  
So today as a matron in the house is laboring over my wound I grasp her wrist, desperate for some knowledge of my father. ÒTell me, for I much desire to know and believe it should not be kept a secret to me, his closest of kin.Ó  
  
ÒMy lord, I do not consider it my place to tell you the minute amount that I know,Ó she said as she bustles out of the room leaving me alone with the suffocating walls and my imagination, visualizing every possible scenario my meager information will allow.   
  
When my mind wearies of my father I turn to images of the king, old beyond my count of years, the undiluted blood of of Numenor flowing in his veins, possessing a veiled power like no other. He shall reclaim the throne of Gondor to the joy of all, but where shall that leave me? Kin less and alone, my new found position gone ere I had time to even think about being Steward, I shall be. Where do I go once I am free of these suffocating walls? Yet I hold no bitterness for Lord Aragorn, no fury or loathing towards him at all. My heart contains only love for him, my healer, my king. Never has even the gnawing thought of jealously penetrated my mind. Yet I wonder about my future, my fate. All is uncertain now, nothing is known. I have passed out of shadow and ebony only to be at the forks of journey of my life, having not the slightest notion which path I should choose, if there is even a clear path laid in front of me. All is uncertain.   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
He told me, haltingly, stuttering, his eyes darting every where but not meeting my gaze.   
  
ÒFaramir, I sense you are troubled and for a just reason. We can not veil things for long, we should never have attempted to shield you for your fatherÕs rash actions,Ó Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth said, staring down at the floor.   
  
ÒI have known long of my fatherÕs death and even suspected it was by his own hand, but tell me what you so feverently tried to keep hidden,Ó I urged him.   
  
ÒNot only did he take his own life but he, he endeavored to bring him with you into afterlife. And you would be laid beside him in an everlasting sleep if not for the courage of one hobbit and the traitorous actions of one Guard of the Citadel,Ó he stammered.   
  
The world suddenly shifted out of focus, images swirling, blurring around me, me spiraling downward once again in the onyx, desolate abyss at the edge of my feet. I struggled to hold on to the light that was fast evaporating. It took all the willpower I possessed to pull myself away from the overwhelming shadow that is grief and despair but I emerged.   
  
ÒThat is regrettable,Ó I said, desperately trying to mask my emotion but my voice belied me, cracking with emotion. Then I shuddered, shaking with dry sobs, my face in my hands as the prince stroked my hair.   
He was gone. The father I loved despite his mockery and scorn. The father I remained as a cold indifference to since my mother departed was gone. And all I could do was cry.   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
I contemplate now the anguish of being alone, utterly, purely solitary, isolated not just by the the walls and healers who bind me here but by my situation, my lack of knowledge. At times I yearn for someone to speak to, to pour out my dreams, fears, desires to. Someone who shall listen. I have lost my one and only confidant to the poisoned arrows of the Uruk-Hai. Even he, my brother, would hardly listen, staring into the hearth, sharpening his sword, the twangs echoing throughout the great empty all we sat in. He would merely nod, hearing but not truly listening , his mind occupied with plots of battle and lore of warfare. In Mithrandir I found wisdom, a friendship, a bound though his visits were few and far between. Always he seemed to ride with disaster licking at his heels, bringing ill news. My father, the Steward of Gondor, resented, scorned . mocked my unity with the wizard, hiding much power in his simple, undistinguished ways.   
  
Ò I have ruled the realm of Gondor in the lost blood lineÕs steed but I am unable to control my youngest son, or even have him love me,Ó the Steward ranted, the memory as unmarred as if the event transpired yesterday eve.   
  
ÒThat is folly, father,Ó I muttered, bowing my head, relying as always on Boromir to fight my battles with my sire. I could face down a Southron or slay a mighty orc but could not affront my own malicious father.   
Boromir had spoken to him many a time, quietly in the shadows, where they naively thought I could not hear as their whispers rose to aggravated calls and eventually to shouts that echoed through the citadel.   
  
ÒHe love you, Father. And you him, if you would only remember it!Ó Boromir raved. ÒAll he ever does is only done in the hopes of pleasing you but you shall never be pleased with him! And yet he still loves you!Ó  
  
ÒHis flaws and faults outweigh his meager, few redeeming qualities. Thank Valor for you, Boromir. My first born shall never betray me the way my second, lesser son has,Ó my father waged.  
  
I yearn for someone,anyone, who I could reiterate his mockery and favoritism to. Someone, anyone who would allow me to tell of endless nights I spent awake, frantically, desperately searching for a way to make him forget his grudge against me and love me again, hunting for a path once more into his heart. I desired, no needed someone, anyone who would understand, hark to my words and erase the feeling of sorrow, of regret that overwhelms me now. I need someone to love me, for who I am, not the son of Denethor II or the younger brother of Boromir II, not the Steward of Gondor but Faramir, merely myself.   
  
* * * * * * *  
I wander now in the gardens, an oasis amidst the stone of the White City. I venture down sunlight paths, where all is as simple and routine as the coming of the lilies in early spring and yet my mind and being still remain in the umbra of despair.   
  
It aches to be alone.   
  
ÒLord Faramir?Ó  
  
I turn, seeing the Warden of the House of Healing striding across the dew covered grass towards me. I almost look away but my eye snares a glimpse of white, pure white and the glitter of gold and my eyes are held riveted.   
  
She is transfixing, captivating, enchanting. She is beautiful, devastatingly so, heart wrenchingly so. She is tall, stern and slender, her grey eyes hallow, holding little emotion other than sorrow and despair, despair so great her very life hangs in peril, in their orbs. She is clad in white, immaculate white as unmarred as the snow capped far in the north. Her shield arm is held in a sling, broken I deem and she looks deathly sallow, an alabaster, sickly look only the Black Breath can put upon one. The dimness of her eyes and tautness of her lips as in one wracked with many pressures fails to make her anything but beautiful, fair beyond the measure anything else I have ever beheld.   
  
ÒMy lord, here is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan.Ó  
  
She looked up and met my gaze, becoming suddenly more pallid and I detected a slight tremble in her stern bearing. But, nay, it must have been my fancy because she once again bowed her head, becoming more remote than ever before.   
  
Eowyn. Eowyn.   
  
Something in my heart stirred and I knew I had found my someone. 


	4. Eowyn

Chapter 4  
  
Initially this author's note said something quite diverse from what I know believe, a something so ghastly I shall not even repeat it. I'll merely say that David Wenham is incredibly good looking!  
  
Author's note: Hell-o once again. Still I press onward with more not sao subtle foreshadowing. These chapters are relativly short and you may question why it takes me so long to put these up. For one, I am lazy but then again isn't that what makes me write fanfiction? To avoid my homework, of course! Actually I have been quite busy sorting through a metric ton of rotton grapefruit for thr band fruit sale and dancing around with a pinapple of my head (from the band sale but the dancing was not part of such)  
  
Lauren  
  
read 'n review  
  
Eowyn  
  
They left the ere yesterday, the Captains, of Gondor, of Rohan , and of Dol Amroth. With them was the high and puissant Lord Aragorn and my brother, Eomer King. They are few, not numbering more than seven thousand, hardly enough to waylay the next assault on Minas Tirith let alone overthrow the Dark Lord in his own fastness. They can not possibly be seeking victory in all their folly, none mortal or immortal can escape their fatuous assault on Mordor alive. They shall be crushed by the sea of orcs issued from the Black Gate, none shall be able to flee. I perceive that they know this and their intent is to be overwhelmed by all the strength in the Black Land. For what purpose save valor beyond all else though their deeds shall go unknown at the end of the world I do not know. But that seems to be enough.  
And I wish I too was riding to death and prowess not lying idle and in sloth until darkness is cast over all.  
  
Too long have I been caged, trammeled, ensnared by duty and the sexist views of all. In my desperation I rode into battle, forsaking all, aspiring for death and renown. I may have achieved renown but death was out of my grasp and again I am forced to succumb to lying and waiting.  
  
I am restless, ill at ease so I called to those laboriously tending to me to bring me my raiment and bind my shield arm with linen so I could venture out of my confining hutch. I went to grovel and beg my freedom from the Warden of the House of Healing for that is what I must resort to. What else could I do?  
  
"Sir," I said. "I am in great unrest, and I cannot lie longer in sloth."  
  
"Lady," he pleaded, "you are not yet healed, and I was commanded to tend you with especial care. You should not have risen from your bed for seven days yet, or so i was bidden. I beg you to go back."  
  
"I healed, healed at least in save my left arm and that is at ease," I stated, fighting bitterly against the walls of my bower. "But I shall be sick anew, if there is naught I can do," I conveyed, gazing up at the stern face of the Warden, seeking some question in his bearing, desperately hunting to break his will. Perceiving this was not so I audibly sighed, turning away, looking to the east as if my eyes could perceive the umbra looming over all. "Are there no tidings of war?" I muttered, almost inquiring myself. "The women can tell me nothing," I said, veering around to face the Warden once again.  
  
"There are no tidings, save that the Lords have ridden to Morgul Vale; and the men say that the new captain out of the North is their chief," he told me.  
  
"Aragorn," I breathed, casting my grey eyes to the ground to hide my emotion at my healer's name.  
"Of whom to you speak, fair lady?" the Warden gently asked for he intuited that it was a subject I did not wish to bring up, could not bring up. Not yet while the memory of my unrequited love for him is still new, the scars of battle still fresh. Nay, it will be countless years until his face and the anguish it caused me fade from my memory even if he fails to return from the east.  
  
"My lady,? he questioned again.  
  
"It is not always good to be healed in body. Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark I would choose the latter," I confessed, and my words greatly troubled the Warden, I sensed. Once again I stared out into the east and could have remained there for ever and anon until he came riding out of the shadows until an idea breached my contemplation. "Who commands in this City? Is there no deed to do?" I asked, awakening from my trance.  
  
"I do not rightly know," he stuttered. "Such things are not in my care. There is a marshall over the Riders of Rohan; and the Lord Hurin ,I am told, commands the men of Gondor. But the Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."  
  
"Where can I find him?" I solicited anxiously.  
  
"In this house, lady. He was sorely hurt, but is now set again on the way to health. But I do not know..."  
"Will you not bring me to him? The you will know," I demanded, my impatience and fury overcoming me.  
With a curt nod the Warden agreed to my proposal and turned on his heel, striding down the marble hall, motioning for me to follow him. I came, my head and heart full of thoughts of Lord Aragorn. Would possibly could Eomer mean by another? I can not image a time when my heart yearned for another besides the grey cloaked Ranger from the North. Yet if will not love me what shall become of me?  
  
I was basked in sunlight as I had not felt in countless days but it did little save warm my skin as we stepped through a stone arch entering the majestic gardens of the House of Healing, an oasis in this harsh stone city. In a far corner, in a grove of weeping willows, his back turned to us stood a tall, lean man.  
  
"My lord," the Steward cried out, treading across the dew lacerated grass. "Lord Faramir!"  
  
Abruptly the man whirled around at the mention of his name and for the first time I beheld Faramir, Steward of the City of Minas Tirith.  
  
For a reason I could not explain my pummeling heart rose up in my throat and though I was cured in body fatigue overwhelmed me when he met my gaze with his profound, piercing gaze. Deep were his orbs, the color of the sea licking away at the shore, I deem. His hair was pure raven, an immaculate, unmarred ebony and in his bearing I sensed an aura of nobility less distant and remote than Lord Aragorn's and also less regal yet he seemed touched with wisdom beyond his years, which though more than mine could not be many. I could not endure his stare for long, feeling he fathomed that which I keep locked away in the deepest confines of my soul. When I dared to glance up, positive his penetrating gaze was no longer aimed my way I saw great worry and anguish etched on his face but also I beheld immense pity... for me. Again he turned towards me, with an inquisitive stare but also a stare filled with mercy, wisdom and I swear I saw traces, just threads of a growing love...  
  
For me. 


	5. Faramir

Author's Note: For a relatively short chapter this has been a long time in coming. Sadly school takes precedence over many other endevors including fan fiction. I also had quite a severe bout of writer's block, so the first few paragraphs were excerutiating to write. Honestly it was like trying to get blood from a turnip. (A queer metaphor I heard once.) But thanks to some other wonderul Eowyn/Faramir romances on this site (Neither Death Nor Pain in particular) I was able to break though my writer's block and thus we have this.   
  
Lyggy: Dah-ling, the reviews were too sweet, especially after what I said about "Pains of the Heart." Honestly you could have flamed me and I would have thought it justified. But to you somewhat appreciate my Faramir obsession now??? And the O's are v. annoying, I know. It does that becasue I have a Mac and have to add on the label for some odd reason. Savvy?  
  
To all my other reviewers: I love you all! Until I started writing fanfiction I had no conception of how much a review means to an author. Now even the tiniest, one line review makes my day.   
  
I am going to see Return of the King on the first day! At 3:05 so I'm getting out of 6th and 7th period! Hurray!  
  
Yours truly,  
  
Lauren  
  
read 'n review  
  
Chapter 5  
  
* * * * * * *  
Faramir  
  
ÒMy lord?Ó The WardenÕs voice penetrated my thoughts and I was brought out of my trance, captivated both my the ladyÕs sorrow and fairness. ÒShe rode with the king and was sorely hurt, and now dwells in my keeping. But she is not content and wishes to speak to the Steward of the City,Ó he continued.   
  
ÒDo not misunderstand him, lord,Ó she murmured her voice woeful and hallow, relying little emotion. ÒIt is not the lack of care that grieves me. No house could be fairer, for those who desire to be healed...Ó she trailed off, her eyes wandering to the east.   
  
ÒYou do not wish to be healed, I deem,Ó I alleged as she vacantly stared off into the abyss. If only I could reach out, ensnare her limp ivory hand, alabaster and immaculate. Then maybe I could save her, rescue her from her own despair.   
  
Her pall tone, saturated with pure despondency though quietly infuriated and derisive towards her self startled me as she began again. ÒI can not lie in sloth, idle, caged,Ó she said, her voice growing more remote and desperate, a plea for help though she did not intend it to be. ÒI looked for death in battle. I have not died and the battle still goes on,Ó she stated simply.   
Unaware of my own actions I reached out and brushed a stray golden hair away from her chaste forehead. She did not recoil as I half feared she would but nor did she acknowledge me either. The Warden, catching my glance hastily bowed and retreated into the House.   
  
ÒWhen I was very young, when my grief for my mother was still fresh and not dulled by the decay of time, ere the sun rose each morning I would go the walls and watch it crest over the blood stained mountains that once enclosed out foes in Mordor before their devilry spread. And such hues I saw, shades of scarlet, crimson and chartreuse and tones of gold to enough to rival anything in our treasury. But never before and never again, I deem, will I behold so fair golden hue, glistening in the sun as one fine hair upon your head,Ó I said, not quite grasping hold of my emotions.   
  
ÒThose are breathtaking words for sure, lord, but hallow and empty words they are also. And they give me no comfort.  
  
ÒWhat would you have me do, lady? I also am a prisoner of the healers,Ó I said, casting my eyes eastward as well.   
  
Then I gazed upon her alluring, enticing features and pity for her woe smote my soul. My heart ached for as she moored her frigid, somber stare upon me. And she quivered and shuddered as one waking from a state of numbed emotion does upon savoring the bitter sweetness of feeling once again.   
  
ÒWhat do you wish?Ó I asked tenderly, ever so gently. ÒIf it lies in my power, I will do it.Ó Thus I bared my soul to the White Lady of Rohan.   
  
ÒI would have you command this Warden, and bid him to let me go,Ó said she. But I perceived an edge of doubt growing on her conscience and her voice faltered and trailed off. Perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps her heartache, her anguish, her despair was not so final and complete. Perhaps...  
  
The Lady gave an audible sigh. There we stood in the midst of all things luminous and ripening for the seasons did not heed the doubt and trepidation in the hears of all in the City of the Guard and only traced their ancient pattern, the flowers still blooming, the breeze still stirring as if nothing had changed, and yet she remained still in the umbra of despair. Though we had little hope in forever escaping darkness it was abating and though my mind housed foreboding and dubiousness my heart pleaded to differ, crying that all was alive and blossoming, how could the end of the world be approaching? All my reason and experience told me that even tomorrowÕs dawn was uncertain, lecturing me that we would all perish or be made slaves to the darkness ere the end. Yet as I looked upon all the fair things of the world, Eowyn not the least, I did not believe, could endure that this would be the end of all things. So much I once knew had changed, the things I perceived as being as constant as the breaking and setting of the sun had ceased to be yet I still had hope while she had nothing save despair. And that perceived my soul, chilled my blood as I looked upon her. I longed to aid her, yearned to be her salvation, desired to heal her but I was uncertain if that resided in my power. Still I ached to....  
  
ÒI myself am in the WardenÕs keeping,Ó I offered, regretting have naught but an excuse. But even if I could grant her request, would I, knowing it very well may bring about her death. Yet even in the safety of the House of Healing her survival still hung by a thread. Thankful, I was, not having to succumb to making that decision, that resolution upon which so much rested. ÒNot have I yet taken up my authority in the City. But had I done so, I should still listen to the WardenÕs counsel, and should not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need.Ó  
  
ÒBut I do not desire healing,Ó said the White Lady of Rohan. ÒI wish to ride to war like my brother Eomer, or better like Theoden the king, for he has died and has both honor and peace.Ó  
  
ÒWill death bring that to you, lady? Honor and peace? Honor you have already gleaned though you know it not. If we even escape this bordering abyss they shall speak of you in song and story. Even if all falls under onyx those left of our kindred, of Rohan and Gondor too, shall whisper in the night of your deeds of great valor ere all was lost. Peace none can grant now,Ó I said, but still her desperation remained, not even cracking ever so slightly. ÒIt is too late, lady, to follow the Captain, even if you had strength. But death in battle may come to all of us yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting,Ó I pleaded with her.  
  
She said nothing, remaining taciturn and pensive. Yet when I peered past her veil of hair as golden as the dawn I sensed a minute transformation in her bearing. Something relented in her and ever so slightly her frost diminished, and I detected a bitter tear sliding down her alabaster cheek unchecked. Once again not cognizant of my own startling actions I reached up and with my rough thumb stroked her cheek, caressing the tear away. She looked up at me, grey eyes brimming with unshed tears i knew she was fighting to hold back. How I longed for her to begin to sob, to break the boundaries she set up between her and the rest of the world, to truly cry. I wish I could hold her and tell her how tears can wash away pain, how merely weeping could heal so many wounds. Yet she still remained distant and remote.  
  
My hand lingered on her frigid, ivory, lurid cheek until she gradually turned away. Still she was out of my grasp... 


	6. Eowyn

A/N: Again some of the dialouge is mine but most is Tolkien's. I'm proud to say that the bit between Eowyn and Faramir about his hope and her desperation is mine. LetÕs just say that all dialogue that is punctuated correctly is TolkienÕs and weÕll leave it at that, savvy? I wrote this all this morning though it took me over an hour. It is good and I am often very critical of myself so it is very rare that I'll admit something of mine is good...  
  
Thank you to all my lovely reviewers and I would comment to all of you if I didn't have homework to do.  
  
My infatuation with Faramir is rather obvious, is it not?  
  
Read 'n Review, savvy?  
  
Lauren  
  
Chapter 6  
  
Eowyn  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
As I stood there, amidst all things in vivid bloom, though all was uncertain, a doubt in everyoneÕs quaking heart, I was conscience of a single tear trailing down my cheek. I closed my eyes, willing myself not to openly weep, but felt a coarse yet warm touch on my cheek, brushing away the lone tear that was winding down the contours of my face. There the touch lingered, stroking my cheeks sunken from days of despair and little appetite. Fatigue, though I was remedied in body, overwhelmed me, and with a faint tremble I reached up to grasp the touch. But it had vanished ere my eyes fluttered open, leaving my hand merely dwelling on my glacial cheekbone.   
  
ÒThe healers would have me lie abed seven days yet,Ó I murmured, bowing my head. ÒAnd my window does not look eastward,Ó a voice muttered, faltering and falling to a whisper. The voice did not sound to be mine, but it was oddly familiar though it had not graced the ears of the living in many years. It is a voice I hear often, a tone that escapes my lips in the dead watches on the night, when I cry out to those departed for no mortal can satisfy me now. It is the voice desperation, of inescapable woe, of final anguish. It is the voice of my pure mournfulness, a voice hardly ever unearthed, a voice I hide even from my closest kin, from those I love most. It is a voice that betrays and mocks my pride and coldness. A voice that bares my soul. Yet there I stood with one I knew so little of, one so stern, yet so gentle and the weak voice escaped through my lips, uttering syllables of a girl, young, naive and melancholy.   
  
A faint smile played on the Lord FaramirÕs lips, I saw when I dared to meet his gaze, but it was not a smile of derision but rather a bitter sweet smile of pity. ÒYour window does not look eastward?Ó he inquired, though he very well knew the answer.  
  
I gave a vague, weak nod ere staring to the ground once again.   
  
ÒThat can be amended. In this I will command the Warden,Ó the lord stated.   
  
I desperately hunted for the words to show my gratitude but my quest was in vain for even if I found the words nothing could pass through my lips.   
  
ÒIf you will stay in this house in our care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the sun, as you will; and you shall look east whither out hopes have gone. And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me.Ó  
I turned my eyes upward and they met his stern yet benign gaze, and I felt a twinge of warmth upon my icy cheeks. ÒHow should I ease you care, my lord? I do not desire the speech of living men,Ó I confessed. ÒFor life holds no comfort for me. The only peace I see now will be in death but not a death as I skulk in a once besieged city as others seek valor but a quietus in vying for honor. No, lord, you can not solace me, can not ease my troubled mind, plagued with despair and doubt,Ó I avowed.  
  
ÒWould you have my plain answer?Ó the Lord Faramir asked.  
  
Ò I would.Ó  
  
ÒThen, Eowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidenÕs fairer still; but neither flower of lady I have seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful,Ó he stated.   
  
These were not the false, poison laced words of Wormtongue or the hollow, irrational utterances of political suitors but heart felt words from a man who judges souls, true words and in my heart I knew he meant every syllable of his declaration.   
  
ÒIt may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face is steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand as drawn us back,Ó he said.  
  
ÒI can not comprehend how you hold so much hope when all in this world has gone horribly awry and nothing, save perhaps out inevitable doom, is sure. Why do you dream, why do you aspire, when you know those hopes are in vain, are futile? Bittersweet is denial, for it shall flee you soon, and make the cold, harsh reality even more bitter to taste. What will you do then, when all your hopes have diminished, when the walls of Minas Tirith crumble and you are left alone? Will you then still hold on to your foolish hopes?Ó said I.   
ÒHopes they are, yet fatuous they are not. They are the aspirations of a kind heart, the dreams of one, who though in the midst of war, despises it and cares only for the cause we acrimoniously fight for, what we bitterly fight to preserve. Nay, my heart and will shall not falter even when I stand alone in the Citadel and watch the Dark Lord himself enter and the City of the Guard. I would fight him myself, dying for Gondor even if itÕs collapse was certain,Ó Faramir stated.   
  
ÒThat may be true, lord, but do not look to me for healing. Shadow lies on me still. I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I shall walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City,Ó I said and curtsied ere I retreated into the House of Healing. But I glanced behind my shoulder and saw Faramir, his piercing gaze now focused on my disappearing frame. A weak smile played on my lips and as I turned and fled I was aware of the thudding cadence of my pounding heart.   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
All through the dead watches of the night sleep evaded me, it would not bestow itÕs blissful escape from the troubles that plagued me during my waking hours upon me. So I ventured out to the balcony adjoining my room, shivering though the breeze blew up traces of the warm sea from the south. By habit my eyes locked on the shadow in the east and I closed my eyes, pleading to be with him, he that is marching to doom. I saw him, images of him danced past my eyes, images of happier times, memories I thought long forgotten. I feel his the last kiss he bestowed upon me, his beard scratching against my forehead as he brushed his lips against my brow. A kiss full of sadness and regret... and brotherly love.   
  
ÒEomer,Ó I whispered. ÒI hope this night finds you save, brother.Ó  
  
It was not Aragorn who my heart goes out to, across the leagues to the Gates of the Black Land but to my brother, who I love unconditionally.   
  
Then my thoughts turned and I glimpsed a noble and stern face... Faramir. I clutched the railing, my head swimming. Faramir.... Why did his face occupy my thoughts this night? Why did I recall his words with a faltering heart? Why did reliving our time together today pierce the very confines of my soul? Why did I feel he sensed all, and by just merely being around him I was baring my soul?  
  
Faramir....  
  
And why did I feel that he loved me?  
  
Faramir...  
  
And I him? 


	7. Faramir, Eowyn, Faramir

Author's Note: This is quite short and sweet but the chapter seemed complete and I felt anything else would have been redundant. Things shall pick up.... eventually. If you find this chapter somewhat tedious please forgive me, I'll make it up to you all. I'm positive I'll get some flames from Eowyn purists but ere you give me criticism read my note at the bottom in which I shall (try) to explain myself. Savvy?  
  
Frankly, I've been quite preoccupied lately, with homework, test galore and a little three and a half hour movie I saw on the 17th..... I knew the House of Healing had been cut (it shall be in the Extended Edition, so do not despair) so I was quite ecstatic to see Eowyn and Faramir standing next to each other during Aragorn's crowning. And I dare say Faramir looked quite dashing and movie Faramir has earned a place in my heart alongside book Faramir and Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice.   
  
read 'n review  
  
Lauren  
  
Chapter 7  
  
Faramir, Eowyn, Faramir  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Faramir  
  
Ere the sprit of sleep carried me off to the blissful land of dreams I lay awake, contemplating anew the meager instants I had passed with the White Lady of Rohan that day. The thick night air stirred and a breeze rustled through the open window beside my bed, playing with and taunting the pure white curtain. The wind blew, the strands of thin linen of the curtain dancing above my head, fluttering around the unobstructed window. I sighed, recalling the wanness of her skin and reliving the iciness of her touch. Eowyn...  
  
High above the city I heard the vague and distant, yet unmistakable terminal shriek of a Nazgul ere if bolted east at the Dark LordÕs beckon. At the sound I shuddered for it brought back memories of a time yet to bitter for me to even endure thinking. I wondered if she to harked the shrill, piercing cry of the Nazgul and if it to forced her to cringe. An image capered across my eyelids, An image of a young solider, clad in the mail and garb of a Rider of Rohan, standing before the mounted Witch King. All was silent, I heard nothing save an odd, bitter laugh, a laugh of despair and the image deserted me as swiftly as it had come. I thought of her now, blanching against her will as she heard the cry of the Nazgul again, a solitary tear falling from her troubled, grey eyes. I yearned to be beside her, to hold her, wipe away the lone tear I knew was straying down her face, to murmur in her ear. To tell her of how she occupies my thoughts now, tantalizing me incessantly. To tell her of the pounding cadence of my heart when she looks at me with her sorrowful, penetrating, desolate yet proud and stern gaze. To tell her.... to tell her..... to tell her that I love her.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Eowyn  
  
There it was, sibylline and distant yet petrifying all the same. At the shrill, high-pitched screech my very blood ran frigid and though the night was fevered, being blanketed by the black velvet sky, I shivered. And a isolated tear emanated from my eye and fell unheeded to the ground.   
My sub conscience reminded me of my brotherÕs faltered speech about my   
  
requiring other remedy that neither Aragorn nor the Warden could give me through their herbs and chants. That I needed a love that neither he nor Lord Aragorn could give me.   
  
Suddenly weary I collapsed against the marble railing of the balcony, laying my head in my limp, pale hands. I felt the cool touch of smooth stone against my ever chilled cheek as I gasped for breath. But this was no malady of the body, no affliction of my physical self yet an ailment of my mind, causing all blur and shift out of focus. It was an acceptance of death, I deem, and the nausea that follows that acceptance. For none can save you then, not even yourself, though try you might. I would die, through the decay of an anguish ridden mind, wracked with sorrow and despair. I would not decease in battle yet skulking far from the transpiring, yet vain, war that would shape the fortunes of all. And it was that thought, not death, that petrified me. As I struggled to bring my head up, to bask in the pale, sickly glow of the moon I was aware of a shrewd and trenchant gaze upon me. Ere I found the strength and indeed the courage to glance behind me the figure was expeditiously disappearing around the bend in the dank corridor. I saw the receding hem of a cloak ere I stumbled back to my bed and gave into to the sleep gnawing at me. But sleep held no comfort for me. Nothing did....  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Faramir  
  
I rose, something luring me through the corridors and to the balcony that overlooked the gardens, now shrouded in obscurity and darkness. I rounded a turn in the inky corridor, suddenly the moon bestowing itÕs the sallow, sickly glow on a figure crumpled against the railing. Horror overwhelmed me as I saw the slight figure shudder and heave as if retching. Then I saw the ripple of golden hair that so now often engrossed my thoughts, transfixing me, mesmerizing me since the first time I gazed upon it. Unbridled terror washed through me as I watched her struggle alone in the umbra, utterly solitary. I knew that I could not assist her, not yet.....  
  
She shifted, raising herself with a tremulous arm, to look behind her but I faded to where the moon could not shine, sinking into the onyx. As I fumbled my way back to my chamber for the first time I doubted, my hope ceased. If she would perish... I shook my head violently as if to rid myself of this thought. No... I could never allow myself to despair for was it not despair that drove my father to madness and now plagues the White Lady? As I sank into the comfort of my bed all else ebbed away as sleep finally beared me away.   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
A/N: Ah, Eowyn's desperation. I know she wants to die but I think she does not wish to die in the House of Healing, but rather in battle and the fact that she will is terrifying her in way. She's ill becasue she has accpeted the fact that she shall not win the death in battle she has yearned for. She already as valor but I believe she fails to recognize that in her struggles. Savvy?  
  
Lauren 


	8. Faramir

A/N: After many days, two showings of ROTK (brings my total up to 3) one foul babysitting experience that will haunt me for the rest of my life, Titanic on TV last nigh (omg, it's Theoden, the King of Rohan as the captain!) and one v. annoying brat sister reading over my sholder I present to you Chapter 8 of the House of Healing. It's quite long for me, infamous for my short chapters. (I actually think it's londer than my last three updates combined!) Because I doubt the sanity of people on this website and also skim stories I've made it painfully obvious when Faramir's flashback begins.   
  
Return of the King today was just peachy being that Brooke (my dah-ling friend) and I could not sop laughing about anything from Denethor's "tea party dress," Frodo's man boobies, Shelob's woman penis, and out growing list of hot guys in Middle Earth. (Brooke: You know, Faramir's pretty cute. Me: (unintelliglbe babble about how I thought that ages ago and he so bloody well is!) Brooke: Him, there, Eomer, he's pretty cute to. Me: Yes... sigh.  
  
My habit of going to bed at the crack of dawn and waking up at the crack of dawn in finally catchig up to me. Tragic, as it's only midnight and normally I get at least three more hours of randomness in ere I collapse from lack of sleep. I blame my 24 hours hyperness of too much sugar and far to much Faramir for my own good. (and the fact that my computer clock 14 hours slow.)  
  
Oh, for Valar (and Faramir's and my!) sake, just read and review!  
  
Lauren  
  
Chapter 8  
  
Faramir (sigh)  
  
ÒTell me, Warden, if you can, all you know of the Lady Eowyn,Ó I demanded, striding into the WardenÕs dank, mean* chamber, cluttered with books of lore, chronicles and the earthy fragrance of drying herbs hanging from the rafters.   
ÒMy lord,Ó he stammered, taken aback by my abrupt entrance, setting down his ink stained quill, upsetting a pot of ebony ink all over his writings.   
ÒI want you to tell me all you know,Ó I reverberated, echoing myself as I began to pace to and fro, back and forth from on shelved wall of his office to the other, running my hands through my jet-black, raven hair. ÒI yearn to know all you can tell me. I need to know....Ó I said, more to myself than the Warden, riveting by my distress.   
ÒWhy, sir?Ó he inquired tentatively.   
Wearily I slumped into the chair wedged before his desk and the suffocating wall, burying my head in my hands.   
ÒSir?Ó  
I glanced up, staring at the Warden through my half closed eyes, devoid of sleep, my fingers obstructing my countenance from his view. ÒI think I may be able to be her salvation,Ó I expressed and now that the syllables had passed through my lips they sounded hollow and frail, foolish utterances from a fatuous mouth. Perhaps Eowyn was accurate, I did cohere to ridiculous hopes. But hopes they were and while there were somethings in the world still bright I fair I would cling to it, though the waves of malice may beat against me, evil seeking, straining to wrench my from my rock of hope.   
ÒWhy do you think that?Ó he asked, unaware of the effect his simple words would have upon me.   
My shoulders sank and once again I veiled my face from the WardenÕs prying eyes. His meager words echoed in my mind, mocking my intentions. Then the answer, brutally honest, surfaced and how it plagues me. It was clear and unpretentious yet it took supreme effort for me to form the words, to utter them, to bare my soul. Many times I had thought them but vocalizing them, it made it real and true. ÒI- I-,Ó I stuttered, the words ensnare in my tightening throat, my tongue weighting burdensome in my parched, arid mouth. My voice cracked and faltered with oppressed emotion as I forced the words to escape from my clenching throat and dry lips. ÒI love her.Ó  
The Warden, engrossed in blotting marred, ink stained papers, suddenly glanced up at me in astonishment, clearly appalled. ÒYou love her?Ó he echoed.   
I nodded ere I collapsed on to his cluttered wooden desk, my arms shielding my head, my neck, my emotions.   
And I was cognizant of a gentle and vague, yet consoling touch on my shoulder, a touch of sympathy almost.   
ÒBreath taking, she is. Haunting in her cold beauty and sorrow. Yet I pity any man whose heart she unknowingly holds in her clutches for he too is doomed to share in her suffering and will be plagued with grief when she finally succumbs to it. I sympathize her brother, Eomer, for he senses that no healing any mortal can give her will suffice. Her fate is sealed, Faramir.Ó  
For that time I was not his lord, not the Steward of Gondor, but a distressed friend in need of aid.   
ÒBut a heart is not easily swayed. If you are destined to love her, to partake in her woe then so be it. I am not one to meddle in affairs of amour or the passion of a soul,Ó he stated and then, abruptly recalling his place he retreated behind his desk, rifling through sheets of stained and torn parchment. ÒBut I do not doubt, lord, that you would learn more from the Halfling that is with us; for he was in the riding of the kind, and with the Lady at the end, they say.Ó  
ÒThe end...Ó I mused. ÒSo was all hope extinct for her then, condemned, damned? Nay, the end as not come but I fear it lurks in wait just around the bend in the journey of life. There is loiters, lingers, tarries ever patiently for her.Ó Then I rose, treading over to the narrow slit of a window in the alabaster rock of the House of Healing. The early morning breeze rustled through the oddly empty and silent White City. It was like the eye of a vicious storm, all was serene and still, yet filled with apprehension and dread. Everything seemed barren and stark in the harsh white streets. I then recalled what agony and heart ache Minas Tirith had once held for me yet it was what I so bitterly fought for...  
  
* * * * * * *  
Flashback......  
  
There she was gleaming on the horizon, her unmarred pale stone rising into the sky, the sheer rock face beside her leering menacingly over the plain. Yet she did not falter, stood as pillar of strength in Gondor though he lords had been long absent in her great halls. The White Tree had withered and died, the blood of Numenor was mingled and diluted with each passing generation and just over the Anduin our enemies lurked, biding their time. Yet proud and stern she still stood, an ivory oasis amidst the snowy peaks that scraped the very sky and the rolling plains, their dry grasses waving and snapping that autumn morning ere the sun had even crested the Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Shadow. Mountains that had long enclosed our worst nightmares in Mordor but now even the lofty, soaring pinnacles, crowns of arrant stone cold stay the foe. Turning my horse I gave a terminal elongated look of yearning to the wilderness. I could barely glimpse a hair thin, spidery line of green of Ithilien, a domain so perilous yet alive and fair. Often, while walking down a rarely used forest path in the country, hearing only the distant chirping of birds in the lofty trees and the treading of my own feet on the leaf carpeted ground I was apt to forget the imperilment of these lands, now traveled by the enemy, on the very fringe of what is unscathed and what has fully succumbed to the growing evil of Mordor. There is a minute, delicate line between what is good and what it ill. What is sane and what is madness...   
I averted my grey eyes back to Minas Tirith, the subtle, diluted light of the breaking dawn painting her walls a flushed rose hue. My tumultuous grey eyes rested upon the Tower of Ecthelion and the Citadel, and I drew in a sudden breath. There he sat, in his straight backed chair, solitary save the alabaster marble statues of the kings of old, the lords of a line long broken, the blood diminished. Great trepidation I had about returning to the City of the Guard, my birthplace and much beloved home, a haven from the perils of Ithilien and Osgiliath yet a dwelling so accursed for me. Within those seamless walls of pure, unmarred, pale stone I was subject to lashes and brutalities greater than those I encountered on the border. Yet is was not the arrow or the sword that pierced my skin and heart within those walls yet the dour, harsh comments of my father, his sullen glares of discontent and apparent loathing, the scathing, stinging lashes of his tongue. Oh, how what was spoken and what was left unspoken, communicated solely in stares and acts of blatant favoritism, could penetrate a manÕs heart, especially the heart of a man who wears it quite openly and honestly. Long have I criticized and mocked for my unobstructed soul which I wore on my sleeve. Quick, was I to pity and if indeed I possessed an fury it was the sole emotion I concealed from the prying eyes of my father. Often, when I was much younger, in days that have long diminished and ceased to be, my fatherÕs stinging words would bring unshed tears to my grey, innocent eyes.   
ÒHow I yearn for a son who veils his emotions, a son with courage. You, Faramir, lack the strength even to master your own heart. Why should I trust you leading the hearts and indeed, the bodies of others? But it matters not. By the grace of valor and your deceased mother I was blessed with another son, my eldest who shall receive my place as the Steward of Gondor. You shall be naught but Captain, and even with that task I fear your incompetence shall ensue in disaster,Ó I recalled him articulating.   
Years later I would ascertain how to masquerade these emotions but they never ceased to be, ruling me in all I do, determining my fate. Pity, I deem, is both a plague, a curse, and a blessing. I have been told countless times that my pitying shall be my bane, shall lead to the unraveling of my person and indeed Gondor if ever I gained power. Needless to say, these words were just part of the the vile syllables that escaped my fatherÕs mouth in the stretches of time in which we were together. As my age and wisdom advanced my duration in Minas Tirith, in the House of Stewards, grew few and far between, not solely by my own doing. Much of my life was spend crouching the the underbrush of Ithilien, awaiting an unseen foe. My life was reigned by my fatherÕs commands, wishes, and whims. Ever did I yearn to please him but never was he satisfied.   
The hushed and benevolent voice of a young Ranger under my command brought me out of my musings that autumn morn on the plains of the Pelannor. ÒIt it breathtaking, sir, is it not?Ó he asked.   
ÒAye,Ó I acquiesced.   
ÒHow I long to be within her flawless walls once more,Ó he confessed, glancing at my expectedly. Then, spying the stern composure on my face, my grim determination to endure the incessant condemnation from my father, he faltered. ÒYou would rather be in Ithilien, am I not correct, sir? That is where you truly find peace, is it not?Ó  
ÒI love the city and its people,Ó I expressed, hoping to alter the conversation ere I said something I would regret. I nudged my horse forward, though wincing with each constant clap of its hooves on the dying grass for each step brought me closer to my fatherÕs harsh words. Do not mistake me, I love my father, only I possess no love for his reprobation of my acts, all done to please him. I audibly sighed as the heavy gates of the city swung open, gates we though none could breach, and entered the walls of Minas Tirith. I was home, but my heart was not yet at ease.   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
ÒSir? Lord Faramir?Ó The WardenÕs benign tone beckoned me back to this time and place.   
I finally turned from the window, facing reality once again. He was dead, no more would I suffer from his criticism. Yet, some how, that notion did not bring me the comfort I once thought it would.   
ÒBring this Halfling to me,Ó I said. ÒTell him I shall be in the gardens.Ó I stated ere I strode out of the room, my cloak snapping with the swelling wind. To the gardens I went, retreating into the umbra of a willow tree, its branches bowing low with the weight of its leaves, veiling me from the world. I thought back to yesterday, where I stood underneath the bows of this tree and first laid eyes upon the White Lady Rohan, who would haunt both my waking and sleeping mind, however ill at ease it may be.   
Then I harked, ringing through the trees, a clear voice sorrowfully singing what I deemed to be once a jolly ditty.   
ÒHo! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go  
To heal my heart and drown my woe.  
Rain may fall and wind may blow,   
And many miles be still to go,   
But under a tall tree i will lie,   
And let the clouds go sailing by.Ó  
The songster dejectedly caroled, half heartily singing as the upbeat cadence got away from him and he trailed off in a final bittersweet, poignant note.   
Coming across the grass I spied a halfling shuffling and staggering along, his head bent over with worry so all I could see was his curly mane of auburn locks. I sighed, speculating of the fate of the first two hobbits I ever laid my grey orbs upon, Frodo son of Drogo and Samwise son of Hamfast. Then my mind turned to the youthful face of Peregrin Took, who ventured on the vain, futile journey with the captains of West. Abruptly, this perian, glanced up at me, his eyes that of one who once possessed great, irrepressible merriment yet sorrow had vanquished and hollow and woeful his eyes were. Pity overwhelmed me as I gave him a wan, haggard smile of sympathy. The hope that I though had vanished was reinstated in my soul as I gazed upon this perian. I was reminded of why were so acrimoniously struggling against the forces of Mordor. So ones with so much joy, so much innocence could live in an unmarred world. So those truly good at heart would not suffer. So those to come, out children, would not live in world tainted by evil, being slaves to industry. Many have died in this battle, but not in vain. While there is still something to cling to, some good left, we must never let go lest our cause is truly lost. Perhaps we may die in this fight, our waning strength finally failing yet in afterlife we will have some comfort for we tried to save this world. And is not trying enough?  
ÒMaster Perian?Ó I called. ÒTell me all you can of Eowyn of Rohan.Ó 


	9. Merry

A/N: This chapter is told from Merry's point of veiw as he refused to go away. Also due to my persisntence and his this is rather long. About halfway through I about gave up but by the grace of Valar (and my lovely reviewers) I carried on and thus this resulted. I regret to say that this shall be my last update for a few days, but fear not, I shall return and sappy, fluffly romance shall ensue!  
  
My dah-ling reviewers: I love you all, you pulled me out of a quite desperate time in which I was not suffering from writer's block but was just bored to tears and very weary. You encouraged me so I forced myself to keep typing and voila, it's here, measuring at about 2,000 words with hardly any Faramir loving moments!  
  
To the one special reviewer whose good side I am trying to get on as Christmas is in approxamatly 25 hours!: Why??? Why, may I ask? What possed you to look me up? (The real question should be: what possesed me to give you my penname in a moment of pure weakness?) Nothing is more humialtating then having your mother (yes, your mother) read and review your stuff. I'll force you to write something and then send it to your mother and we'll see how you feel! And yes I would like to see it again (for the 4th time) By the way (if I haven't already told you) I want the ROTK sountrack! I expect to see it under the tree in 25 hours, savvy?  
  
Lauren  
  
Chapter 9  
  
Merry  
  
ÒMaster Perian,Ó this tall man, shrouded by the leaves of the weeping willow, beckoned. The wind, now whistling through the swaying grass, played with his forest green cape, tugging his hair, the hue of the deepest night that looms over Buckland. Buckland... The Shire... So far away it seemed. I was hardly the same hobbit I had been when I left, unaware of the war I would soon be embroiled in. It had only been mere months since I had bidden the sweet, dew laced meadows of the Shire a final goodbye yet it seemed as if many life ages of Middle Earth had flitted away since then. Nevertheless I could still recall the Shire, though my mind conjured up only a hazy, vague image. What I remembered mostly was the serene atmosphere of the Shire, the feeling of unmarred bliss that engulfed me. I had failed to appreciate the simple, rustic beauty of the Shire and now it was too late. If ever I returned, even if our struggle against Mordor was astonishingly won, nothing would ever be the same. The Shire, in all itÕs humble beauty and quaintness would be unaltered but it would be I who was forever changed. I have seen a great many things that I shall never forget, events that shall haunt me until I draw in my last shaky breath. I could continue on with my unadorned life, feigning happiness yet in the deepest confines of my soul I have been forever altered. But none of that truly matters for I doubt I shall ever look upon the gently rolling hills, the laughing springs, the tilled earth of the Shire ever again.   
  
ÒMaster Perian?Ó  
  
Once more I gazed up at this towering man who exuded a silent inner strength. His face was benevolent and full of sympathy, his grey eyes penetrated my very soul.   
  
Oddly familiar was he, almost like one I had seen a long time ago but whose face I have near forgotten. But, nay, it could not be so...  
  
ÒSir,Ó I stammered, sinking to my knees. ÒI am Meriadoc Brandybuck of Buckland. I am told you wish to speak to me of the Lady Eowyn.Ó   
  
ÒAye,Ó he admitted. ÒBut rise, you owe no honor to me, rather I to you. For did you not assist in the slaying of the Witch King of Angmar?Ó   
  
I nodded, my cheeks tainted with the color of modesty at being praised. ÒI brought the fell chieftain to his knees but it was the White Lady who dealt the final fatal stroke.Ó  
  
ÒI am Faramir son of Denethor, by right the Steward of this city,Ó he stated, a grim smile on his lips. ÒBrother of Boromir of the nine who set out from Rivendell,Ó he added, his soft voice thick with oppressed emotion.   
ÒBoromir, as I remember him, in life was strong and valiant. His death was not in vain but part of this broader strife against evil,Ó I stammered, searching for words to console this stern man.   
  
He veered away from me, gazing east, briefly running the back of his hand wearily across his closed eyes before turning back to face me. ÒWhat do you know of the Lady Eowyn?Ó he solicited, his grey hued eyes, full of sorrow and yet up, pleaded with me.   
  
ÒI first glimpsed the lady as I rode with Theoden King of the Mark as his esquire to Dunharrow, deep in the mountains of Ered Nimrais. She seemed grieved by the apparent death of Strider as he had taken the road to the Dimholt, the Paths of the Dead, or so they said.Ó I said, straining to recall the memories of a time mere days ago that seemed to allude me.   
  
ÒStrider?Ó Faramir asked, a puzzled expression of his benign yet distressed countenance.   
  
ÒThe Lord Aragorn,Ó I owned as way of clarification. ÒUnyielding yet melancholy she was, her stern face tear stained and that made her all the more rueful to behold. I remember her voice cracking and faltering with emotion as she struggled to restrain her tears. Yet never did I see a single tear fall unveiled, openly from her hollow grey eyes. Irate and wrathful she was that Theoden mandated that she stay behind, a similar order he issued to me also. As we rode out from the Dunharrow...Ó I began but trailed off, something striking me anew, a piece of the intricate puzzle I had yet to fit into place. ÒI saw in the ranks upon ranks of the eoreds of the Riders of Rohan as we departed to Edoras, a young man, lithe in form and less in stature then the others gazing up at me with vacant and mournful yet determined eyes. His glance frightened me and haunted my sleep for many days after. It was the look of one without a single trace of hope, not the slightest shard. The stare of one who rides seeking death and it Ôtis a lamentable thing to behold.Ó  
  
ÒYes, it is,Ó the Lord Faramir murmured.   
  
ÒSoon, oh, too soon we reached Edoras, a breathtaking place, Lord, set upon a precipice of rock amidst the endless, eternal plains of Rohan. I have seen nothing like it in all my travels and doubt I ever shall. There I was to part from the King and aggrieved I was to do such. I yearned for time when we would be able to sit in the Golden Hall of Meduseld and tell Theoden King of the lore of pipewee. But alas, it would not be so. Desperately I pleaded with him one last time to allow me to ride to battle but once again he denied my wishes. As I stood in desperation watching the Riders mount their horses and ride to valor a unbeknownst to me a stealthy figure crept behind me and in my ear I heard a soft, woeful voice.   
  
Ò ÔWhere a will wants not, a way opens, so we say,Õ the youthful Rider muttered. ÔAnd so I have found myself. You wish to go whither the Lord of the Mark goes: I see it in your face,Õ the voice stated.   
  
Ò ÔI do,Õ I confessed.   
  
Ò ÔThen you shall go with me. I shall bear you before me, under my cloak until we are far afield, and this darkness is yet darker. Such good will should not be denied. Say no more to any man but come!Õ he cried.   
  
ÒI recognized him as the rueful Rider I had glimpsed, penetrating grey eyes so hauntingly sorrowful, amidst the eoreds that morn. I promptly thanked him for his gracious deed, then recalling I knew not his name.   
  
Ò ÔDo you not?Õ the Rider asked incredulously, as if he did not believe my words. ÔThen call me Dernhelm,Õ he whispered.   
  
ÒAs we mounted the grey hued horse Windolfa horns sounded across the plain and all began to cry. In a great rush we followed Theoden King as he exited his realm for the final time. We rode to the constant, incessant, relentless cadence of hundreds of hooves beating against the ground. For five days we rode and as the sun rose on the fifth day we finally looked upon Minas Tirith, gleaming in the sunrise though she was besieged by countless ranks of orcs,Ó I said.   
  
At the mention of this day I detected a slight quaking in FaramirÕs bearing and h seemed to have cringed, to have blanched.   
  
ÒSir?Ó I asked gently, sensing that day, when the sun rose blood red, for him was bitter and grievous to recall.   
Ò It is nothing,Ó he said, but his tone belied him and catching my earnest yet sympathizing gaze he sighed. ÒIt is nothing I wish to speak of. Or rather nothing I can yet speak of.Ó  
  
I did not press the subject that brought to him so much anguish and for a time he was sullen, lost in his own pained meditations. Wordlessly I watched him and espied the glint of a tear in his grey eyes. Somehow this proved some comfort for me, to know that even such a proud, stern and noble man did not fear his own emotions, did not shroud his own feelings.   
  
ÒOf the battle I remember little and most of what I do I have been trying ceaselessly to forget. I do not wish to taint the air of this oasis amidst the fray of battle with words of the slaughtering I witnessed that day,Ó I began again, stuttering and stumbling over the words at first.   
  
ÒThere is no need,Ó the Lord Faramir said and I was astonished to hear his voice, laced in heartbreaking woe. ÒThough during that fateful day I was till wandering, lingering in the valley of death, on a great precipice, teetering between death and life, I have been in a great many battles in my lifetime.Ó  
  
ÒWhat memory I do retain of that day is the image of countless Riders, courageously confronting most certain death with stern, resolute faces and unwavering hearts. And that image I shall never forget, it shall be the image I remember as my death looms before me, an image of the strength, valor, and honor of men.Ó  
  
Faramir merely nodded, apprehending what I meant in my speech embellished with fine words that could still not capture the essence of that feeling that engulfed me that blood red dawn.   
  
ÒThen as Dernhelm and I rode after the mighty king, whose pace outmatched any mortal being, a poison laced arrow smote the kingÕs steed Snowmane and Theoden King was ensnared under the corpse of his faithful mount. A shadow then passed overhead, a shrill shriek rang out across the field, and all, friend or foe, halted, quaking and trembling. In her terror Windolfa threw both Dernhelm and I to the ground, stained and saturated with the blood of men and orcs alike. The Witch KingÕs fell, winged steed swooped onto SnowmaneÕs lifeless body and it delved its webbed claws into the horseÕs side. Dernhelm, weeping, rose up from the filth and staggered toward Theoden and the Witch King. I crept on my hands and knees after him, dazed and bewildered in the chaos that had ensued. Then above the clash of sword upon shield, the screams of the dying, and the battle cries of the living I heard a clear voice cry out.  
  
Ò ÔBegone, foul dimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!Õ  
  
ÒDernhelm... I fought the urge to succumb to my fear and remain cowering on the ground and rose my head. There was Dernhelm, standing strong, not blanching and unwavering before the Nazgul that for so many miles had pursed the Fellowship.   
  
Ò ÔCome not between the Nazgul and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shriveled mind shall be left naked to the Lidless Eye.Õ the ring-wraithÕs cold voice replied.   
  
ÒMy very blood ran cold and I shuddered but still I hobbled ever closer to where Dernhelm still stood, now unsheathing his blade, already drenched in the crimson blood of countless orcs.   
  
Ò ÔDo as you will; but I will hinder it, if I may,ÕDernhelm answered defiantly.   
  
Ò ÔHinder me?Ó the Witch King mocked. ÔThou fool. No living man may hinder me!Õ  
  
ÒThen, rising above the din of the battle I heard an odd sound. A grim, austere laugh echoed through out the field. DernhelmÕs laugh...  
  
Ò ÔBut living man I am!Õ came a clear voice ringing across the battered, tainted field. ÒEowyn I am, EomundÕs daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living of dark undead I will smite you, if you touch him.Õ  
  
ÒThrough the smoke of the battle I saw hair tumbling like a river of golden waters down that who I called DernhelmÕs back, escaping its bounds and the confines of her helm. In that instant, as the Nazgul remained silent and struck mute, the long shrouded and concealed courage within me stirred and I leapt up. Yet, I was too late, the winged creature beat its ghastly wings and swooped down upon Eowyn, driving itÕs claws and beak into her stern form. Yet with one fateful, skilled stroke he dealt, hewing the head of the foul beast asunder from itÕs heinous body. Out of the wreckage of his mountÕs corpse rose the wraith, wielding both a mace and the very sword that smote Frodo on Weathertop, Amon Sul. He struck her shield and it shattered like fragile glass, her arm broken. Eowyn fell to her knees, awaiting the final swing of the Witch KingÕs mace that would break her body, claiming her life. But it did not come. Driven by courage and love and wonder for this fair lady I brought the wraith to his knees, shearing right through his onyx cape. That stroke traveled up my arm, rendering it numb, devoid of all feeling. As my eyes darkened I saw Eowyn rise of faltering limbs and drive her sword between the mantle and crown on the Witch King of Angmar. And that was all I saw,Ó I finished wearily.   
  
Faramir nodded, puzzling over all that I had told him.   
  
ÒWhy, sir, did you wish to know this? It could not be because you wished for the company and full tales of a witless hobbit.,Ó I asked.  
  
ÒNay, yet if my mind was untroubled and your tales held mirth I would rejoice in your company. I must confess, however, the Lady Eowyn has stolen my heart and I yearn to know all can about her past and what troubles that are plaguing her, besieging her,Ó Faramir said. ÒFor I love her.Ó 


	10. Eowyn, Faramir

Redone as of 7/1/04  
  
Chapter 10  
  
Eowyn, Faramir  
  
Eowyn  
  
Morning.  
  
Wan sunlight filtered through the translucent drapery drawn over the solitary window in my room, the window that did not face east but rather south. The window that forced a complaint to pass through my lips, the grievances of a fatuous maiden. For the Lord Faramir to perceive me like that, a youth whose rash deeds and unorthodox conduct have ensued in a grave injury, a maid who lacks the mental will power to suffer the consequences, to succumb to the counsel of the sage healers, to endure tedium, bestowed upon me additional despair. I know little of the struggles and strains of the heart, had experienced nothing involving love and passion save the unconditional love I held for my kin and my infatuation, for that is what I deem it, with the Lord Aragorn. Yet I am cognizant of the tumult in my soul when I visualize the Lord Faramir lying awake, pondering the fatuous words of a senseless wretch.  
  
"Faramir," I murmur, the syllables catching in my throat, my tongue viscous in the confines of my mouth. "Faramir," I mutter again and again, an echo. I am no longer aware of the sound of my own feeble voice. "Faramir." I run the word over my tongue, until the syllables as a entirety fail to make any sense to my ears, sounding uncouth and vile yet beautiful. I marvel at the sound the word create when I say it, his name. "Faramir..."  
  
Abruptly I am awoke from my trance, gaping at my surroundings in horror. What folly was this, me lying in sloth, uttering a name over and over again until it deteriorate and faded, spawning no sense or significance to the human ear? What madness was this?  
  
Mustering the scant strength and vigor I possessed in my broken body, propelled by a sudden desire for a breath of air not gone stale between these oppressing walls I staggered over to the portal to the balcony, still clutching the pure while sheet around my angular, bony shoulders. I passed over the threshold, the breeze tugging at my hair and the hemmed edges of the sheet. I glanced over the garden's, my eyes lured, drawn to to weeping willow under whose boughs I first encountered the Lord Faramir. There, half shrouded by the branches of the willow, which reached out to brush against the ground, I spied a tell, lean figure, his back to me, fronting east. His green cloak billowed and danced a perilous waltz with the wind ere settling back to his sides. The breeze rustled through his hair, the color of shined ebony, pulling the strands across his face.  
  
I pressed my teeth against my wind burned, parched and spilt lips until they were saturates and besmirched with crimson blood, not allowing even a syllable of that dreaded name to pass through them. As I leaned over the alabaster marble of the railing a lone drop of blood spilled from my lips, staining a scarlet drop there forever more, until the collapsing of these walls, the decay of Gondor and the ending of the world. It is close, oh, so close. I have only to wait a few mere days ere death will take us all.  
  
Soon, very soon....  
  
Faramir  
  
"For I love her."  
  
Merry looked up at me, his eyes full of wonder, awe, and great woe. I was astonished to hear my own voice after hours of harkening to only Merry's gentle, melodic voice and the rusting of the breeze through the leaves of the willow. I was even more startled to hear what the voice said.  
  
Love....  
  
There are few beings in my life who I have ever allowed myself to love, and even fewer souls to whom I have confessed to loving. The wind blows, carrying with it memories, painful and poignant, bearing me away to a time long gone but never forgotten.  
  
Flashback  
  
I thought I was alone, believed I was the sole one awake in these dead watches of the night, plagued by a dream, my sleeping mind ever besieged. Never could I escape this dream, blissful sleep forever eluded me so I took to pacing on the walls, the words of the dream running through my mind over and over again, never ceasing.  
  
"Seek the sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsel taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand."  
  
It was then I felt a hand grasping my shoulder, then I became aware of another presence on the wall. I then heard a familiar voice, rough, course and deep in my ear.  
  
"Why do you wander, brother?"  
  
"You know why I stray from the comfort of my bed; you know why I descend into the City, to the walls. You know what inflicts, what besets my mind, both in waking and in a troubled slumber," I replied, my voice devoid of the respectful warmth I usually regarded my older brother with, turning to face him.  
  
Boromir appeared taken aback at my utterances and tone, harsh for my chiefly genial demeanor.  
  
"The dream?" he queried though he very well knew the answer to his superfluous, redundant inquiry.  
  
I merely nodded, I had long deemed words futile, discussions were always in vain.  
  
"Brother, I know naught of this dream, but I do know of what it has done to you. You are altered, can you not see it? I look upon you and though I am greeted with your familiar features, you are disparate from the Faramir I once knew," he pleaded, clasping my shoulders, now thin and gaunt.  
  
"I am a cursed man, Boromir," I muttered, but lacked the strength to pull away from his all consuming grasp.  
  
"From afar I have watched you, brother, seen you vanish into Ithilien only to return even more haggard and distant than before. Our time together is minute and at times many months pass ere I lay eyes upon you again, before I am in your company again, and to see you suffering and being plagued wrenches at my heart, brother." he said, uncharacteristically candid.  
  
I turned away, not able to endure to meeting his eyes.  
  
"Listen to me, Faramir!" he demanded. "I have taken no wife, have loved no woman, partly for fear that she, whoever she would be, would delve a fissure in our relationship," he declared, shaking my shoulders in his frustration though his grey irises were full of compassion and genuine concern, unfeigned concern. "Tell me, little brother for I can deliver you aid," he fervently implored of me.  
  
"You can't fix everything, Boromir. We're not young anymore. I know now you can not mend every problem we face..."  
  
"Whatever could you mean?" Boromir asked.  
  
My eyelids began to weary from an existence devoid of any restful slumber or any intermission in my contemplation of the dream or a dormancy in my troubled thoughts of the approaching assault on Gondor I felt was lurking in the umbra of the future. I pressed them shut, relishing in the utter abyss that greeted me, an onyx void of nothingness. Nothing.....  
  
I perceived Boromir abruptly seizing my shoulder in alarm, stabilizing me. I vaguely recall pitching forward, lurching toward him as my brother strained to support my limp frame  
  
"So thin and gaunt you have become," he grunted, struggling to bear my weight as I suddenly collapsed against him. With utmost heedfulness he sank to his knees, resting my languid figure on the stone floor, cradling my head. "Faramir," he pleaded, attempting to shroud the growing panic in his voice. "Faramir, brother," he called, feigning composure and serenity, running his hands over my forehead and through my raven hued hair. He hastily scrutinized my vital signs, examining my wrists for a faint, slow pulse, and wiping my brow. "Brother, do not leave me now!" he cried, terror rising in his voice. I heard him beckoning me, pleading with me, his voice remote and distant. I moaned, my eyelids fluttering open, staring up at the gleaming stars that loomed over our figures, mine sprawled out on the stonework, my brother's hunched over mine. He breathed a sigh of relief and gave me a wan smile that almost ridiculed and mocked his panic. "Brother," he said, playfully rustling my hair.  
  
"I am sorry, Boromir," I murmured, possessing no breath for naught but the simplest articulations.  
  
"No apology is required, Little Brother" he declared, his tone steeped in relief and I even detected traces of trepidation in the voice of one whom I deemed to fear nothing the world contained. He possessed the unparalleled capability to slay the most repugnant of beasts without the slightest semblance of tremor or cowardice and even when embroiled in the fiercest of onslaughts he maintained an expression of utter tranquility, concentrating on naught but what he must accomplish. Calamity could not inflict panic upon him, bred to be a warrior, nor could the possibility of fatality. To him bloodshed was ecstasy and he oft proclaimed that never did such a thrill and such a sense of purpose deluge him as when he was delving his blood stained sword into the side of a horrific orc or equally repugnant Southron, beings that to him posses no face, no name, and no past.  
  
My disposition, unlike Boromir's, who seems to be wrought flawlessly for killing, is not suited for butchery and carnage. It was my own hesitation to swiftly draw my blade across the neck, to slit the throat of a young Easterling, that ensues in my own treacherous wound during the battle we waged in defense of Osgiliath. I halted my actions for mere seconds to gaze upon the boy, for he was no more than a boy, where his body lay, mutilated and maimed, amidst the filth of the hostility, unwilling to deal the terminal blow. In those mere instants he arose upon quaking limbs to push the jagged and notched blade of a dagger into my side ere collapsing again.  
  
Pure excruciation made my vision unclear but I was still able to afflict the wretched being one terminal, fatal blow before I succumbed to the encroaching abyss.  
  
I was found upon the ground, beneath the dismembered corpse of an orc, suffering from severe blood loss, yet still living. Medical aid, even of the most primitive mode, is lacking in Ithilien, on the hostile edge of the realm of Gondor, thus the dagger was withdrawn from my side, the grotesque wound was bound, and my bleeding stopped. Beyond that naught could be done until I returned to Minas Tirith and I rejected any offer of returning until I was bidden by my father to attend a council, a council where my suggestions were denied ere I had fully articulated myself and I sat in tedium. In the month I had remained in Ithilien my wound had festered, failed to properly heal and do to the lack of cleanliness that existed among the company I dwelt with and fought beside, became infected. This, paired with the reoccurring dream that relentlessly plagued me every night, made me wretchedly ill, though I denied in and sought to conceal it from anyone. Revealing this would only grant my father more occasions to perceive me as weak and inadequate, so, believing that time could remedy even the most grisly of wounds, I refused aid. Yet I could not sustain this masquerade, feigning health for ever and anon.  
  
"This can not be the work of a mere dream, even one as afflicting as the one which besieges you," Boromir mused, almost to himself.  
  
"Nay," I relented, "it is not."  
  
"Will you not confide in me, Little Brother? Let there be no secrets between us."  
  
Boromir clutched my wrist and I glanced up at his lined face, his eyes brimming full of unshed tears, tears I knew he would later deny and scoff at. "If you are injured or ill you ought to tell me. The Healers, they can help. Have they not cured many an illness that was deemed to be lethal and have they not extracted many a poison steeped arrow from the flesh of unfortunate soldiers? Have you forgotten the incident involving a bar room brawl in which I came to have my own dagger lodged in my shoulder which they promptly mended without inquiring of the reason?" he jested in attempt to lighten the somber, dour mode yet only succeeded in mocking it with the obviously feigned smile that played upon his lips. "I do not doubt they have the poultice to salve whatever abrasion or fracture that has befallen you."  
  
I granted him a meek nod yet lacked the capability to stifle a wan smile at mention of his calamity involving his own weapon in spite of the gravity of the situation.  
  
"Brother?" he urged.  
  
Wordlessly I drew up the hem of my tunic of simple sable embellished with the White Tree of Gondor at the throat, revealing the blood saturated bandages that I myself had bound that shrouded the ghastly, gaping wound.  
  
I dimly harkened to him gasp yet the noise seemed quite distant and remote.  
  
"Brother, how long have you been injured? You must tell me!" he demanded, his voice growing even more rough and thick with emotion as he grasped me by my collar, relentlessly shaking me, an act that may have been perceived as cruelty to an onlooker yet I knew to be an act of frustration and desperation.  
  
"Since the battle at Osgiliath. Early on in the battle." I conceded, my own voice faltering and failing as I toiled to maintain clear, focused vision, something that eluded me in times of excruciation, both mental and physical, for I was assailed in both manners.  
  
"Yet that has been nearly two weeks! And... and..." he muttered, struggling to recall the events of that fateful day, events that have diminished into mere shadowy memories of maimed bodies, crimson blood and the typical carnage of battle. "You continued to fight."  
  
"We could not yield the bridge. I would not allow it yet of course we did fail. I would defend my home land with my terminal breath. This you know." I rasped. Where I lack such supreme power and skill as a soldier that Boromir possesses I have unwavering, unfaltering loyalty to Gondor and it is this fealty, this unbreakable allegiance that is the solitary thing that would ever induce me to kill.  
  
Wretchedly I unbound the bandages, crude strips of linen I had torn from my own sheets in my chamber in Minas Tirith, pulling the blood steeped cloth back to reveal a grotesque wound, puckering around the edges in a repulsive manner, infected with some vile consanguine. And there was blood... Never before had blood galled or flustered me even when I bound my own battle wounds, or pried poison laced orc arrows from the open wounds of my comrades.  
  
"Yesterday...." Boromir urged, "At the council meeting when you slipped out?" he implored urgently.  
  
Miserably I nodded, confirming his suspicions. "I was loath to depart but I felt it necessary..."  
  
"I wondered..." he muttered, almost to himself. "You seemed so gaunt and ashen when you returned...." He looked upon me in terror, contemplating anew the fortnight we had spent together between these alabaster walls. He paused, fitting pieces of the puzzle together to create an image more frightening to him than all the armies within the mountains of Ered Lithui and Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Ash and the Mountains of Shadow that enveloped the foes of Mordor. An image which is worse than anything Saruon could conjure up. The image of a mortally, fatally wounded brother. "Do you believe it lethal? Do you believe it will claim your life?"  
  
"If it does it shall be just payment for my folly in my failure to disclose it to a living soul. I shall have to reconcile myself to that in the afterlife, if there truly is one," I replied, unable to stay the bit of bitter sarcasm that my tone had gained.  
"Faramir, brother," Boromir choked. "Whatever happens, I love you. I'm not sure I've told you for a long time, if ever. But I love you."  
  
"And I you."  
  
At this he assisted me up, struggling to help me regain my footing. But I could not stand unaided and once again lurched forward as Boromir caught me. With his arm hooked under mine we stumbled along painfully slowly. At times we faltered and I would slip from Boromir's tight grasp as we wove our way through the labyrinth of tightly wound streets and alleys to the House of Healing.  
  
"Brother," I gasped, abruptly aware of the hold this infection had over me, how ill it was making me. "Conceal this from Father," I pleaded. "I would not have him posses him any more reason to scorn me. Any more justification for his loathing of me."  
  
"He does not loathe you, Faramir. In his eyes you mirror our mother too much and he detests being reminded of her in your bearing, you utter goodness. Also he sees much of himself in you, too much for his comfort," Boromir replied, pausing to regain his breath ere we ascended further into the city.  
  
"I love him," I confessed ere succumbing to a bout of coughing and sickly shuddering. "I don't believe I've ever told him. If this is to be my end I would have you tell him. Please, Boromir, promise me." I choked, clutching on to his now rumpled tunic.  
  
"I will, I promise you...."  
  
They laid me in a bed in the House of Healing, covered my fevered brow with a warm cloth and told my brother there was nothing more they could do for me. I suffered from extreme exhaustion and my body lacked the strength to fight off infection. All were doubtful I would live through the night, live to see the sun rising over the Mountains of Shadow ever again.  
  
That night my brother staid by my bedside, eventually succumbing to sleep and he dreamed. Dreamed the dream that had plagued my mind for so long....  
  
And in the morning I awoke.  
  
"Sir? Lord Faramir?" the Halfling asked, curiously gazing up at my face over which a shadow had passed, my eyes vacant as if looking back into time.  
  
"Yes?" I asked, my hand lingering near my lips where blood had not gathered in many months.  
  
"The White Lady also has ensnared my heart," he confessed and misinterpreting my silence he hastily added, "for she is more valiant and courageous than any woman I have ever encountered and for that I respect and admire her."  
  
"I fear," I said, "that the despair that besieges her will never abate and she will never open up her heart to me. She is skilled, Master Meriadoc, at shrouding her heart and I fear that will be her undoing. I love her," I reiterated and no longer did the words feel uncouth and unnatural in my mouth. "I love her," I echoed.  
  
I had ridden to my demise just a few sunrises ago and now I could not summon up the courage to even tell the Lady Eowyn that I loved her. A bittersweet smile played on my lips. Was this folly the love poems and lore are written about? Was this frightened yet blissful feeling that overwhelmed me what minstrels sang about? Was this love? Something in my heart told me love is more perilous than all the foes in Mordor.  
  
And it is true.  
  
Love, I have learned from both my books of lore and life experience, is both terrible and wonderful, perilous and enchanting. It was my brother's love for me that forced him to follow me in my wandering in the dead watches of the night. It was his love that steadied my faltering feet and held me as I battled both my mind and my illness, wrought from a repugnant wound. It was by his love that he bore me to the House of Healing. By his love that I was saved. And by his love he took the road to Imladris, eventually forfeiting his life for a dream had by his younger brother. A brother he loved more than life itself, a brother he would readily have gave his life for.  
That was love. 


	11. Faramir

A/N: Thanks a million to all my reviews and yes: Faramir fetishes all the way! This shall be the last update for a while as exams are fast approaching and being a chronic overachiever I must throw myself headlong into my books. So don't plan on an update for a good two weeks. (When exams will be over!) I apologize that this took a while, I was parted from ff.net and my computer for a good 4 days! *sob* I was so distraught *twitch twitch* that the night I was finally free of excessive amounts of extended family (which are peachy in small doses...) I staid up practically all night just reading fan fiction. If you look at the bottom I responded to some recent reviewers as the fancy struck me. I'm not foresaking the rest of you guys just had to start somewhere and couldn't respond to everyone or I would lose my v. fragile mental stability.  
  
Tragically I just realized it is the Houses of Healing as in plural thus I have a chance of abondoning my highly generic name for something a little more creatve. So if any one has any suggestions tell me!  
  
Lauren  
  
Faramir  
  
As I sat, swept away in a sea of memories that this dwelling brought, memories of a night stained with my blood, the very sky, endless and eternal, saturated with blood, not just mine but the blood of an empire, a way of life, tumbling down the slippery slope to oblivion. I then heard a subdued, hushed voice singing once again.   
  
ÒO! Wanderers in the shadowed land  
  
despair not! For though dark they stand,   
  
all wood there be must end at last,   
  
And see the open sun go past:  
  
the setting sun, the rising sun,   
  
the dayÕs end, or the days begun.   
  
For east of west all woods must fail...Ó  
  
I had neglected to remember I was not alone, now reclining on the grass, my back resting against the rough, crippled trunk of the willow tree. This simple halflingÕs, as many behold him, words pierced my heart and I do not believe he knew how true his words would ring, here where the dawning of the next day in uncertain and all we held to be stable in our alabaster oasis from the cruelty licking at our heels had proved our perception to be false, fatally so. But his fatuous ditty of fell forests and those lost in the labyrinth of branches paralleled oh too closely with the perils we now must confront, or perish. ÒAll darkness must also end at last, all wickedness must also end at last. Like the woods this forthcoming abyss will not plague this world forever. It can not be eternal, one day the clouds will fissure and the fiery orb of the sun will once more bestow itÕs light on the battered, mangled earth and birds will cry and life will continue.Ó  
  
I was startled to see Merry looking at me intently, his eyes trying to penetrate the depths of my grey ones. So in my contemplation my thoughts had slipped from my mouth much to my chagrin, becoming not mere reflection but statements.  
  
ÒIt is true, sir,Ó Merry said finally. ÒWhen Frodo first sang those words we were lost in the Old Forest after a short cut went horrible awry. It was mere months ago, lord, not six or seven new moons have I seen since but those months have been filled with things both malicious and beauteous, events of great valor, places of majestic beauty, places of cruelty and I have journeyed along the safe path. I can not bear to think of what anguish Frodo has had to endure. My perception of time is now so flawed that some days are whisked away before my very eyes and others seem to last life ages of this Earth. I have grown so, both mentally and physically, seen so much yet still have much more to see...Ó his voice faded from my even my keen hearing and he looked up at me for reassurance. ÒAm I making any sense to you, sir?Ó  
  
Though my mind was besieged and I was greatly troubled a smile played on my lips and I playfully ran my hand through his curly head of matted and tangled hair as my brother once did to me what seems ages ago.  
ÒYes,Ó I sighed. ÒYou make perfect sense of something I have not been able to make sense of for many sleepless nights. I think...Ó I began, still striving to grasp a concept this halfling seemed to so effortlessly comprehend though he knew it not. ÒI think once someone we love desperately passed on, ceases to be, or goes away to certain death and we are forced to endure life without them and much we once knew is altered they hardly fit into the context of our life anymore. You have experienced so much since the last time you looked upon Frodo and the time when you were together hardly seems to be real to you, you can no longer picture his face and lose sight of the way he spoke, his demeanor, all that was once so familiar to you and though time ticks by leisurely to you it is fleeting,Ó I muttered, realizing then I had halted speaking of Frodo and commenced speaking of my brother. ÒAges have passed since they opened the gates for him, gates now shattered by the devilry of our foes, and he rode across the plain, disappearing into the horizon, forever...Ó  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Flashback  
  
ÒGo with the grace of the Minas Tirith, Gondor, and indeed all men of the West,Ó my father proclaimed to Boromir, resting a hand, once nimble and skilled with a blade, now gnarled and crippled, on my brotherÕs shoulder. I was certain, if not restrained by dignity and pomp, the he would have enveloped my brother in a loving embrace but for now he merely placed a reassuring hand on his armor, bowing his head.   
  
ÒFather,Ó Boromir muttered. ÒI shall return, shall find the answer to this dream of my brother, this dream of mine.Ó   
  
My fatherÕs shrewd, acidic gaze lingered to where I stood, slightly removed from them, observing yet never partaking, as always. I closed my eyes, unable to bear the intensity of my fatherÕs stare.   
ÒAre you well?Ó Boromir asked, approaching me, laying a hand on my shoulder gently as if afraid I would shatter and crumple at his slightest touch.   
  
ÒI am fine,Ó I prevaricated, suddenly very intent on adjusting the belt on which the my sword hung, sheifed in a fine sheaf on intricately woven Gondorian letters with the White Tree etched at the bottom. It was a lie, though I was physically well, only weak and lurid, my mind was far from being at ease. ÒWill you never permit me to forget my collapse?Ó I asked, now engrossed with the hilt of my sword.   
  
ÒFaramir, look at me, brother,Ó Boromir pleaded. ÒI would never dream of mocking you; I only fret over your health.Ó  
  
ÒLet us not speak of dreams for now, brother,Ó I said, finally encountering his gaze. What I shall were his grey irises, acutely similar to mine, peering at me with unmatched woe and concern. ÒDo not let your mind linger on my health while you trek into the unknown. There will be more pressing matters for you to consider.Ó  
  
Boromir nodded grimly, clearing his throat, two pairs of grey eyes now immersed in scrutinizing the stone work.   
  
ÒSo I guess this is good bye,Ó he said, turning to look to the horizon, endless and infinite, broken only occasionally by soaring peaks, scraping the very sky, eternal and majestic as it loomed over us that final dawn. The final time I would look upon my brother in life.   
  
ÒBoromir, I beg of you again. Let me go in your stead. The dream was mine thus I will hold myself responsible for whatever befalls you outside our borders,Ó I fervently implored though I knew my efforts where in vain. ÒPlease, brother. I hold an formidable foreboding, a premonition of ill things, and ghastly events to come. Permit me to go. I would no have you forsake, sacrifice your life thusly.Ó  
  
ÒThat it all the more reason for me to traverse this path to Imladris rather than you. My will is set, brother, even you can not break it,Ó he said, a grim smile playing on his lips as he facetiously ruffled my hair.  
  
ÒStop it,Ó I groaned. ÒI am no longer young,Ó I protested, as I often did.   
  
ÒYes, but you shall forever be my younger brother,Ó he jested. ÒAnd I shall never forget it,Ó he added, his tone becoming soft and woeful. ÒI shall return, little brother, in less than a year and all shall be as it once was,Ó he said, though we both knew in the deepest confines of our soul that it would not. ÒPerhaps by then you will be able to outstrip me in sword play, though I highly doubt it,Ó he said, his voice regaining its previous jovial quality, however feigned it may have been.   
  
With that parting words he strode to the center of the courtyard where his horse, outfitted in all the glory of Gondor, was hitched.   
  
ÒGood bye, my son!Ó our father proclaimed as the gathered crowd, those who had awaken at this early hour to see Boromir off, began to chant his name.  
  
Once again I pressed my eyes closed, allowing their cries to overwhelm me, to engulf me. ÒBoromir!Ó I opened my mouth the beckon him back but my voice was drowned out by the shouts of the throng of townspeople. It was futile.   
  
But he turned, hearing my voice among the dull cadence of his name being hollered over and over again, for ever and anon, over the roar of the masses. As he positioned his sturdy leather boot into the stirrup I dashed from the shadows into the swelling sunlight.   
  
ÒFaramir?Ó he asked. ÒWhat is this?Ó  
  
ÒI would not have leave like this, not have you venture out to seek a place that may not even exist, not have surrender your life for a fatuous dream,Ó I choked, unable to bear the strain any longer.   
  
Boromir hushed me, gripping my shoulders. ÒWould you have your people view in such a condition? Would you have our father behold you in such a state?Ó he hastily asked, imploring me to conceal my emotions.   
I shook my head, once again feeling exceedingly youthful and naive. When I dared to gaze back to where my father stood, arms folded across his chest in a stance of defiance and remoteness, his eyes flashed and burned with a pure, unbridled contempt, perhaps not for me, but for my actions.   
  
ÒHe loves you,Ó Boromir murmured. ÒAs do I. That it why I must take this road, it is my destiny, my fate, my doom.Ó With that he embraced me and I wearily laid my chin upon his shoulder plate, as I often would do when I was still quite young and he would return from a scuffle in Ithilien, blood staining his sword and his face masked by layers upon layers of grime and filth.   
  
ÒI shall return, you shall see,Ó he said ere leapt upon his horse and rode into the dawning summer sun, tainting the sky and fields with blood.   
  
Yet he would never return.   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
ÒIt seems like many long, wearisome years have passed since he rode away, rode away to his ultimate death,Ó I said, more to myself than to the halfling leaning against the tree beside me, intwining his stubby fingers in the new grass.   
  
ÒBoromir?Ó he asked gently, sensing it was a difficult subject for me to broach.   
  
I barely nodded my head.   
  
ÒBoromir....Ó Merry said, rethinking their meager time together, though through strife they came to know each other will. ÒHe died desperately fighting for my kinsman, Pergrin Took, and I so we would not be captured by the Uruk-Hai. Do not think his death in vain, though. I have always held your brother in great esteem and owe him my life many time over. I do deem that if he had not attempted to seize the One Ring from Frodo, Frodo would not have become cognizant that he must abandon the Fellowship if ever he was to destroy the Ring. And for that I am thankful.Ó  
  
ÒIf your story is true, Master Meriadoc, then the debt has been already repaid. For without the determination of young Master Pergrin I would have perished in the fire that claimed my fatherÕs life, by his own will,Ó I said. ÒThough much blood has been spilt, even more has been saved from being shed,Ó I said and Merry gave me a beam, unmatched to any I have seen so far.   
  
ÒYou are aptly named, Master Merry, for your soul is truly pure and always, in your heart, are you mirthful and merry,Ó I said, laughing. Laughter, such a sound to harken to after endless months of grim silence.   
  
Merry clasped my hand in his small one,wrapping his stout, stunted fingers around mine. ÒAll shall be well again, you shall see.Ó  
  
Whatever shame I felt to be consoled by a halfling quickly fled. All would be well once more.   
  
If only I could aid Eowyn in seeing that...  
  
So I responded to some recent reviews as the fancy struck me!  
  
monaco: I wrote that coughing up blood chapter under the influence of the ROTK soundtrack (and candy canes) and I guess I almost got swept away in the music. I was honestly just typing along and the next thing I knew the poor guy was (for lack of a better word) hacking up blood. When I came back to this fic the next morning I was quite disturbed and realized (not for the first time) that I may not be entirely sane. I am quite cognizant that it fails to make any sense but I don't plan on changing it.   
  
psychedelic: Faramir fetishes are the best! I think I may even start a website in my free time. *wink wink* (Highly unlikely to happen as any free time I possess is granted to this fic.)  
  
WhiteLady: Yeah! I made someone cry! I think I have quite a knack for that as I had all the people on the Power of the Pen (writing competition!) team sobbing during one of my numerous death stories. I guess I'm not the only one who crieswhile reading fan fiction. That's encouraging!  
  
Iluvien: Wow, thanks for all the reviews. I probably do need a beta reader. I'll look into it.   
  
Spirit of Dawn: That would probably work but I view it like this. It's quite obvious they are far from shy about their feelings for one another. (They DID kissed in front of everyone. Oh, scandalous!) And it never seemed to me that Faramir was one to hide anything... 


	12. Faramir, Eowyn

Chapter 12 I'm back! (and thrilled to be so!) The 15 day hiatus for this story is over and I could not be more estatic. Another odd chapter in which I become oddly profound.   
  
In a side note: I am in desperate need of a Beta reader. My usual Beta reader (and co-author for upcoming pieces and dah-ling friend) Oliver posses a strong dislike of all things E/F and fluffy thus.... Well, in other words I need a Beta so review if anyone cares to take the task. I would send baked good but I almost food poisined my science teacher at one point so.....  
  
read and review and I'll gladly return the favor!  
  
Lauren  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Faramir  
  
For long hours I traversed the garden paths with the halfling, at times idle chatter passing between us, often blissful silences as we both withdrew into our own thought. Often I would look for her, praying to glimpse her standing utterly alone and forsaken in the far reaches of the winding labyrinth of paths in the garden, for them perhaps I could aid her. Yet she did not come.   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Eowyn  
  
I detest laying in sloth for it is when I am idle that memories, unbidden, tragic, and emotionally excruciating engulf me. Memories of a time I believed I had forgotten, memories I futilely tried to leave behind when I rode away from the gently swaying, dried grasses of the Mark. After years of being numb and strong, nights of bitter anguish as I waged a mental battle against the feelings gnawing at me, days of remaining untouchable and aloof, I felt and it Ôtwas a painfully beautiful. I lie upon the twisted sheets of my bed in the Houses feeling raw emotions, at times merely boring a perforation in the ceiling with by penetrating stare, at times weeping uncontrollably as I experiences overwhelming emotions that were too profound for me to bear. Grief. Anguish. Bittersweet joy. Love. Vulnerability. Eventually sleep bore me away to a realm of days long past. Days swept away with the winds that ravaged the desolate plains of the Mark. Risings and settings of the sun and the hours in between. Memories....  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
I fiercely bit my lip, feeling the hand of my uncle resting on my bony shoulder as he fervently attempted to reach me,to solace me. Yet it was in vain. We watched from a distance as Eomer stood at the foot of the fresh mound, laced in the pure white blossoms of symbelmyne and openly wept. All the others mourners had long since departed, returning to the city to consume the customary funeral ale, to forget even the reason why they were draining goblets of mead. We, however, lacked that luxury and by the barrow of my mother we stood, the harsh wind beating at our immobile figures. For how long we remained motionless, eternally, it seemed in my young, naive mind, I do not know.   
  
My uncle, the kingÕs love for my mother was unsurpassable but even he could do nothing as she transcended to death, spiraling down into oblivion. I observed him that somber, grief stricken day, regal and kindly, and for the first time I glimpsed the strain of old age, of days of perpetual councils, and worries for all in the dead of the night.   
  
Eventually the sun sank below the lofty peaks of Ered Nimrais and my uncle bid Theodred to approach my brother, whoÕs knees had given way beneath both the weight of his body and the grief he bore. His head was bowed, tangled and matted golden locks shrouding his face and his shoulders were racked with sobs. Theodred knelt beside him, muttering utterances I could not harken to and Eomer rose on quaking knees and his gaze lingered on me, brown orbs rimmed in crimson, veins vivid in the whites of his eyes, so sharply contrasting to the pitch of his pupils and irises. Running from his eyes to his cheeks, then unaltered by the approach of manhood, then smooth, were lines where salty tears had carried away the grim that was constantly embedded on his face. His look was that of bitter determination, the look of one whose years of innocence had been pilfered and seized. No longer did he cry, merely clasped my hand in his, raw and calloused from weeks of swordplay training, trained I was permitted to take part in, though at times he and Theodred would pass their few idle hours teaching me to parry and counter. His childhood was spent, that he knew, and he was unceremoniously thrown in the torment of manhood and the duties that accompanied it.   
  
He would never cease to internally mourn for our deceased parents and often I would glimpse him, a minuscule finger on the horizon, standing before the barrows of our parents, listlessly murmuring to them.   
  
One sunrise, as the shadow of both Mordor and Isengard waxed and basked the land in umbra, I encountered him standing lone in the plain and approached him, at first watching from afar, transfixed.   
ÒI do not doubt that not a day passes without you diligently abiding over us, loving us from afar so it is indisputable that you know of what besieges my sister,Ó he murmured.   
  
My breath caught up in my throat and the sensation that I was intruding his solitary, poignant moment was soon forgotten as a curious dread engulfed me.   
  
ÒShe never permitted herself to grieve in the wake of your passing. Those oppressed feelings have wrought a remotely cold young woman, beautiful, immaculate yet harsh and distant,Ó he said, his deep baritone deteriorating into a gruff whisper. ÒEven I can not reach her, though I ardently attempt to do so. The love of myself, Theodred, and Uncle is not sufficient. She needs someone to love her, not as kin, someone to fracture the impermeable emotional wall she has constructed around herself. Until then she is almost incapable of loving, truly loving,Ó his voice faltered and disintegrated and sensing my presence would no longer be unknown to him I fled back to Edoras, brushing past Theodred, locking myself in my chambers.  
  
I then realized not all the bars I paced back and forth, to and fro and behind, not all the cages were spawn from others. Some were indeed of my own creation, emotional bars, sheer, seamless bars I could not rupture without assistance. Once I though the Lord Aragorn would sunder these constricting bars but my notions were amiss. By the time this become brutally apparent to me it was far too late to reclaim my heart, the heart which I had so candidly and abruptly granted to him.   
  
Perhaps Eomer was correct. Perhaps I am incompetent of loving, incapable of recognizing love, unable to receive love, and unapt to return love in the same capacity.   
  
Was I damned to be forever solitary and remote? And all was of my own doing.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  
And thus I remembered until I possessed no more tears to shed, no more memories to confront and was forced to face the present. And my future, if there was one at all.   
  
Some replies.....  
  
Spider-bear: I'm trying not to let everyone down. Honestly I don't know. My writing has it's ups and it's downs. It controls me more than I control it. That is, I suppose, why the time between updates very. I can force myself to write, my muse forces me. I too want to see some romance!  
  
Baccus Cremaeus: I'm glad you liked the Boromir part because frankly I wasn't entirely pleased with it. The writing sufficed but I honestly thought he was rather ooc....  
  
monaco: This break in writing this was almost the death of me. Thank Eru for chocolate browning frappichinos, insane friends, and caffine highs! I'm estatic you like that flashback because later when I read it it just irked me......  
  
Spirit of Dawn: You haven't the slightest idea how much your review has plauged me. I began to doubt how I percieve Faramir and that was dangerous. When writing parts of the writer's personality traits often show up in characters, on in the case of fanfiction, how you charecterize other people's characters. I am highly emotional and so is my writing so that would explain my take on Faramir.  
  
Chicki45: Been there, done that, and ended up laying in a snow encrusted alley on a major caffine high.   
  
Everyone else: I love you all!!!!! You guys keep me alive and writing! (but not sane as it is far too late for that!)  
  
lauren 


	13. Eowyn, Faramir

Chapter 13   
  
NEW TITLE (praying that doesn't cause any confusion....)  
  
Again Faramir is being my dah-ling angst bunny with psychological issues that lead him to have absurd flashbacks. I seized the stars vieled line from Legolas just because I think it's a beautiful line. I am fearing I am beginning to repeat myself thus I have stooped to the level of a Mary Sue and am now stealing lines from random characters!  
  
Lauren  
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Eowyn   
  
The sunlight waned and the suffocating ebony velvet of the night, the stars veiled, engulfed all. As the inky night mounted I drifted in and out of consciousness, meandering from the world of the living, straying into a land of dusky oblivion. I heard the echoes of a voice I could not place, startlingly intimate, yet unfamiliar, as if I had heard it once long ago.   
ÒThen, Eowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidenÕs fairer still; but neither flower nor lady I have seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful.Ó  
I awoke abruptly, my head besieged by the cadence of an incessant, eternal pounding and as if hypnotized, or observing myself from afar, I donned a simple white gown, girt at my thin waist with a simple, unadorned belt of pure silver, now tarnished yet lacking none of itÕs humble elegance. It is beautiful like the plains of the Riddermark are beautiful, breathtaking in their utter simplicity. A mirror was sloping out from the walls, itÕs black frame embellished with delicate, intricate carvings of the White Tree of Gondor. The glass was warped and blanketed in a thin film of dust which I swept away with the cuff of my alabaster sleeve. Then, I beheld myself in the glass, drawing in a sudden breath, deprived for air, choking. My golden tresses hung limp down my back, lacking both luster and shine. My countenance was hauntingly gaunt, my hollow grey eyes betraying no emotion save utter desperation.   
ÒSo lovely.... So sorrowful.Ó  
  
Again those utterances, mere words though they were wrought in unsurpassed pity and traces of loving respect, if not true, profound love itself, echoed in my mind.   
  
Love.   
  
Ever had my brother, uncle, and cousin bestowed affection upon me in their gruff, remote manner and I held vague, indistinct memories of my fatherÕs hands, the consistency of leather, tousling my curls ere he was slain by orcs when I was not yet seven years of age. Memories of my mother, as she used to be before my father perished and she spiraled into the oblivion of sheer grief, strong and beautiful, kind and stern. Gazing back in time I find many parallels between her tragic tale and mine as it unfolds.   
The breeze stirred and the white walls of Minas Tirith beckoned.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Faramir  
  
As I departed from the Houses I spied on the impenetrable walls of the City of the Guard, Minas Arnor in days of old, a lone figure clad entirely in white, fair hair tumbling in the wind. I shaded my eyes from the brilliant light of the rising sun, content merely to behold the White Lady, as pure and impenetrable as the walls upon which she stood. Warily I approached her, relying on my light tread gleaned from years of stealthy ventures in the woods of Ithilien. As I drew closer to her I saw her defiant glare into the East, thin, calloused hands clenched at her sides. I heard the gentle cadence of her shallow breathes and I relished the bittersweet feeling merely that being in her presence brought me. Often when I find myself in her company the moment seizes away my logic and my actions become rash and as unpredictable as the winds themselves. Gently I rested a comforting hand on her slender shoulder, savoring the feeling of the cloth of her dress and the smooth, unmarred skin near her neck under my calloused fingers. Her skin held little warmth, frigid to the touch, like fine watered silk. She flinched slightly at my consoling touch, closing her cloudy grey eyes, a lamentable sigh escaping her throat.   
  
ÒItÕs beautiful, is it not?Ó I said, my voice quiet and subdued.   
  
ÒThe world holds little beauty for me, lord, only anguish, only grief.  
  
The brutal honestly of her poignant reply smote my heart and I was struck silent. An awkward silence loomed between us, my hand still clasping her shoulder.   
  
ÒWould you care to walk in the gardens with me, Eowyn?Ó I asked, marveling still how this captivating, haunting, sorrowful shield maiden could steal my breath away, my very ability to speak. A sensation wondrously terrible like the White Lady herself. My eyes lingered on the green woods of Ithilien and the memory of an ordinary day there, marked by extraordinary contemplation came back to me...  
  
* * * * * * * Flashback  
  
A tumultuous slumber besieged me even in the secret haven of Hennuth Annun and eventually I awoke, the light of the moon wafting through the waterfall, basking my face in its ethereal glow. I pressed my eyes closed, praying the melodic cadence of the waterfall would lull me to sleep. Yet my hopes were in vain and I cast the crude blanket off my body, shivering for despite the fevered climate of Gondor, warmed by winds bearing the tangy aroma of the sea northwards, when the sun fell in Ithilien cold winds were born from the north and when we awoke the grass would be laced with a thin, translucent film of frost. Donning my green cloak, a garment used to shroud me from the ever watching eyes in the East and slipping my bow over my shoulder, departed. For a moment, or an age, I stood before the waterfall, gazing upon the Forbidden Pool below, beautifully contorted by the veil of water. Treading warily on the slick rocks, polished sheer by the poundings of water, I departed from the Window of the Sunset.   
  
In a trance like state I was lured into the wild, traversing along rarely traveled, winding paths in the labyrinth of the twisted undergrowth in Ithilien. Though my venturing out into the perils of the border where audacious and rash I was ever wary, gloved hand resting upon the carved hilt of my sword, a quiver full of arrows on my back, and reflexes gleaned from months in the service of the Steward in hazardous, bewitching woods of Ithilien and hours devoted to swordplay. For how long I walked under the gossamer glow of the the moon in the land of the moon, I do not know. My head was reeling with thoughts and the present flitted away into the past, into history, a new present now upon me, unmarked. The seconds gradually tallied to minutes, the minutes waxing into hours and queer thoughts congested my mind. Never again, I realized, would the world be precisely as it was the blissful night when I was lured from my bed by the beckoning of the stars, stars that bestowed upon me, and cursed me with, profound thoughts that lead me to question all I knew and held true in this world. Thoughts I would scarce permit myself to brood upon, thoughts, if expressed, my father would scorn, my brother would feign interest in, staring into the fire, his worn fingers never idle. Young, I was then, probably not one and twenty, I deem though my memory fails me, yet a brutal realization dawned upon me. Savagely, bitterly honest. I, my mind contorted by the rants of my father, piercing words I eventually accepted rather than striving to comprehend his malignant love towards me, become cognizant of something, something that when I openly admitted it to myself stung like a poison saturated orc arrow. I wondered if anyone in this forsaken world truly valued my presence, anyone who would attentively listen to my fatuously deep contemplation, anyone to whom I could candidly pour my heart out to without reserve. It was these thoughts singing their wretched, poignant melody in my weary head that tranquilized me into a serene slumber under the boughs of a tree in the treacherous beauty of Ithilien, prey to anyone who chanced upon me. Yet, the graces of the Valor shone upon me that night, and I awoke physically unscathed and possessing a resignation of my berth in the world, forever to be unaltered. The second, lesser son of the Steward of Gondor. Nothing more and nothing less.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
ÒYes. I would care to,Ó Eowyn replied, staring up at the wan smile that played on my lips, the odd bittersweet expression on my countenance, in wonder.   
My gaze lingered to her standing before me and a sensation I have long attempted to relay through poetic words or simple, stark dialogue engulfed me. A completeness.   
Her utterances, meant only as an answer to my query, were to me as if they were wrought in the finest glass, or even the mithril IÕve heard of in legends. They were an acceptance, even of the most minute nature but a ray of hope to me.   
  
* * * * * * *   
  
A/N:I have been reading some terrific fanfiction lately which only suceedes in making me feel like some senseless little girl in possesion of internet acess, Lord of the Rings, a large vocabulary, and a Faramir obsession but an astounding lack of talent and no knowledge of the uses of a little thing called a comma. Perhaps I shouldn't be so hard on myself but one can hardly feel adequate reading some of the breathtaking pieces on this website. It makes me just want to fully succumb to my writer's block and curl up in bed and do nothing for days at a time. But I muddle on through this pathetic attempt at a fanfiction. I'm not self pitying here, just losing what was left of my fragile sanity as this piece flounders... I'm not going to entirely forsake writing, as I'm young yet and lack experience. No doubt I'll be over this in a few weeks and throwing myself headlong into other piece. I am feeling quite like a whining child at the moment so feel free to ignore my little self centeredness and self pity. Maybe I'm just on of those people that can not for the life of me take compliments and seek to find fault in whatever they do. I am very cynical, never happy with anything I do... I shall continue with this though!  
  
On a somewhat lighter note: Hugs and kisses to every single one of my reviews. You guys seem to be the only ones who believe in me even after I've given up hope. And if you are reading this but inveterately don't review... STOP NOW and press that little button down at the bottom of the page. I'll be forever in your debt.   
  
lauren: going through major mood swings/ personality changes at the moment! 


	14. Eowyn

A/N: I'm back! Finally, after a month of overachieving at school, procrastinating, being entirely uninspired, I return. This chapter is rather short but I'm so thrilled my muse and I are getting along at the moment (due to much therapy) that it has gained control at the moment.  
  
Hugs and kisses to Dragon Girl Revlis, my beta and almost the sole reason I kept doing this.  
  
WANTANELFL: Ello poppet! I am attempting to get on your good side as you are my key to getting into R rated movies (Ned Kelly, Troy) and seeing random movies with a naked Viggo. "It's good, it's good, really."  
  
All my reviews: I love you all to death! Continue to review because its the only thing that encourages me.  
  
Lauren  
  
Eowyn  
  
We sat side by side, backs against the knotted, twisted trunk of the willow, an utter and complete silence hanging between us, a blessed silence marred only by shallow breaths of my companion and the gentle breeze stirring the leaves on the boughs of the tree.  
  
"Do you ever contemplate your place in this world?" he murmured, his low voice scarcely audible. "Do you ever wonder if you were born to fulfill some purpose, destined to traverse a certain path?"  
  
I wearily pressed my eyes closed, content to allow the smooth, subdued cadence of his voice to engulf me. "At times, when I used to look out over endless sea of grass of the Riddermark from my lofty perch before the steps of the Golden Hall, I doubted if I even possessed a situation in this world save sheildmaiden, lurking in the shadows, attending to a kind, who's decaying life paralleled the deterioration of his realm," I said. I was bewildered as to why I was conveying what I told no other mortal to this Gondorian lord, regal and distant yet humble and gentle.  
  
He turned, our eyes interlocking, mine keen, shrewd and scrutinizing, his grey irises possessing a faraway look, as if he was gazing back through the ages, or merely penetrating the shrouded soul of an austere sheildmaiden with his subtle sympathy. How I loathe pity, detesting all who degrade me with their sympathetic looks, yearning to be regarded no different than all else who tread upon this ground. Yet I remained transfixed, captivated by his stare, deep set grey eyes that were unfathomable seas of anguish and joy, sorrow and love, pity, encompassed by dark half moons, an distinct mark of pure exhaustion.   
  
"You remind me of someone, someone who I have afflicted my memory incessantly for some remembrance of, for merely the gentle lull of her voice, the sound of her laughter, her affectionate touch. These memories elude me, however leaving me only with images of what she became, ensnared by duty, honor, and love within these walls, a fortress of white amidst the sea of plains and pinnacles of stone. An ocean of plains that could never satisfy her unquenchable, immortal love for the sea..." He paused, bowing his head, intertwining his calloused fingers, blistered from the flames of his father's insanity. "I know not why I am telling you this," he muttered. "These utterances had never encountered the ears of even my brother, my closest confidant, and nor will they.  
  
"Gondor is a world of contrasts, Eowyn. Of constricting honor and one's heart fighting the eternal battle. A world where you feign emotions, permitting the true ones to fester and wrought within you a treacherous personality. Gondor is a violently opposing ambiance of black and white; you are either one thing, or the other. A son is both unfailingly loyal and deferential to his father or a disgraceful wretch of a creature, in their narrow perception. I was neither, yet Gondor has not a position for anything save the most extreme of the spectrum.  
  
"My father, who breathed the very essence of the Gondorian mentality, is a prime example of such contrasting extremes, for he held them within himself. He taught valiance, while he himself submitting to his gnawing fears. He preached respect, while he possessed none for me. In front of his populace he was a pensive and shrewd leader, while enclosed in the walls of the House of Stewards with his family, he was volatile and degrading.  
  
"I fear becoming like him. I only take comfort in the circumstances that have given me no family to suffer from my somber moods and insanity, should I grow to be that way in old age. I am my father's son, however touched with the gentleness of my mother. Even divinity will not be able to deter my descend to becoming my father."  
  
All the while I listened intently, chin resting in the cradle of my hand, peering at him anxiously, absorbing his every syllable.  
  
"There, I have bored you with my melancholy mood and profound reflection, have I not?"  
  
"Quite the contrary, my lord," I murmured in response. His hand was lying unfurled on the grass and I covered it in mine, the coarseness of his skin contrasting with my pale, white hand.  
  
Contrasting, yet harmonizing.  
  
Am I the only one who finds the format fixed now? I' m praying it's not just a fluke. I think I may change the title of this story (once again) to Contrasting Yet Harmonizing but I need opinions!  
  
Review! 


	15. Faramir

A/N: I live! (in the sense that I am still physically breathing and have yet to keel over) I had every intent of carrying this chapter on to male it at least 1500 words but my muse would not cooperate thus is is rather short. I would respond to reviews but as of now I have 46 minutes to get myself dressed and out the door to make it on school on time and I'm still sitting here in my pajamas. As always when the flashback commences I have made it painfully obvious...  
  
A million thanks to my beta: Dragon Girl Revlis...  
  
Read and review... I beseech you!  
  
Lauren  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Faramir  
  
In the course of my childhood, as fervently gaze back through the years, vainly seeking to pierce the haze that time has wrought over legions of memories, I am able to discern one lamentable incident with astounding clarity of perception. I have retained the ability to recall every finite detail, though other memories have ebbed entirely, ceasing to me, of one particular day when I could count my years upon one chubby hand. My naiveté would abruptly terminate that day, as I was swiftly seized from the guileless, whimsical world of childhood and placed in the malicious, dour realm of adulthood by the vicious, venomous claws of fate.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Flashback  
  
Her thick ebony locks, so often woven into a unpretentious yet elegant coil at the nape of her neck, were lying loose, tangled and matted, across the pillow, violently contrasting with her sunken, ashen continence. The chambers in which she now resided were so utterly white and asture they assailed me with unparalleled trepidation. Nightly I was tormented with ghastly nightmares and was engulfed in a terror I thought only grotesque beasts and perhaps even Father when he was in one of his more abhorrent, vile moods, could evoke at the prospect of venturing into that room. Boromir, then but a decade old, drew parallels between these quarters and the lair of some heinous, surreptitious monster, to amuse me but only succeeded in frightening me more which obliged Father to grant him a swift striking across the back of his head.  
  
"We must forgive, Father, little brother," Boromir told me after our lord had stalked from our chambers, seeking solace in the solitude of his study. "He is not himself," he continued, futilely combating the tears that were filling his eyes, tears not only from the shameful excruciation of having Father's wrath placed upon him, but tears wrought from the weight of realization that he bore. He comprehends Mother's illness and was cognizant of what her ultimate fate would be, though, for my sake (and the sake of Father's mandates) he remained silent about his knowledge. I have often contemplated, and admired, him, for suffering the burden of the truth that was placed upon his shoulders, then slender and weak, utterly solitary.  
  
Boromir gripped my shoulder, forcing me to traverse to Mother's beside, where she had extended one limp, ivory hand. She caressed my tear stained cheeks with her fingers, her flesh almost translucent and murmured my name, the syllables of it sounding both beautiful and haunting as they escaped her lips. Casting a wary gaze to where Father was paralyzed in incessant vigilance in the corner, she enfolded me in a tight embrace, stroking my hair, reiterating just how boundless her love for me was and other tender things that I will leave untold, articulations I do not wish to touch this air, tainted by the smoke of war, words that to me are pure mithiril, more hallow, sacred, and precious then anything else this world contains. Then reluctantly she released me, hesitantly yielding me to Father and to the malignant world outside of her embrace. She repeated her actions with Boromir, who loathly, withdrew from her clasp, perceiving that if was our time to depart from the chambers.  
  
"Do not permit her to even glimpse you cry, Faramir," he whispered sternly in my ear as we exited, forsaking his usual term of endearment, 'Little Brother.'  
  
I cast one, wistful look back at Mother, wraithlike and sallow, spying Father bitterly weeping as he clasped her delicate white hand in his broad, rough palm.  
All was contrasting. Mother's flesh against her sable tendrils of hair, Father's hand against the languid once he clutched, and my life ere she departed from the life of the living and my life after she ceased to me, save in memory. 


	16. Faramir

A/N: Eru, I have so much to say yet lack a somewhat eloquent way to say it. I was obliged (tragically) to finish 8th grade and labor on through finals (at times its painful being an overachiever) then (after having a revelation that I'm finally, truly, blissfully in high school and only have to endure 4 more years at home) I procrastinated, suffering from a dreadful bout of writer's block (perhaps I should change my penname to that as it seems to afflict me quite often) despite the fact that this chapter has been mostly done for over a month, just lacking a conclusion.  
  
This chapter contains an excuse for me to be somewhat fluffy (at least for me) which is in stark contrast with my normal writing. Dear Faramir has a bit of a day dream, half foresessing thing to do with the starry mantle (which figures quite promiently in this chapter.) AND THE MIDDLE PART IS SUPPOSED TO BE IN PRESENT TENSE! Does it make sense? Probably not. Do I care. Decidedly no. Should I care? Probably but that does not alter a thing.  
  
For my own twisted purposes this chapter had the following title as it was in progress: "Bizarre moment of F being able to foresee furture that's really just an excuse for boundless fluff and unsurpassed sap..... mmmmmm!.... frightfully, mortifyingly sappy! v. twisted b/c this is from F's point of view.... oh, lord... shalln't venture THERE!"  
  
And I frankly don't have any clue what I was alluding to with "THERE!"  
  
Lauren  
  
Faramir  
  
Ere I was fully cognizant of my actions, I found myself traversing the labyrinth of stone corridors, delving into the depths of the House of Stewards, and having procured permission from the Warden to venture from the Houses with the dissemblance of attending to some mandatory business, which I was deliberately vague about in my perjuring.  
  
For me, poltergeists of the past linger among the majestic white pillars; tapestries depicting tragic lore through haunting and intricate weavings are fraught with excruciating memories. My own home has at times authenticated itself as being more perilous than even fetid lairs of orcs, and caves teeming with other odious, repugnant fiends. Poison laced arrows can do naught but wound a man physically while scathing articulations from the mouth of ones father posses the capability to mortally mutilate one emotionally.  
  
I swiftly strode past scores of locked chambers, not even pausing to permit my gaze to linger upon the precious heirlooms of the line of Stewards, elegant vases and tarnished silver candlesticks, weighted down with the burden of tradition and formality. These are antiques that have born witness to the malice of my father, nay, the malice of the wretched being that he became, have born witness to the deterioration of my mother's volition to live, through the years. Naught but a decade of age, I had crouched behind the precise table I pay no heed to presently, as my brother and Father became embroiled in a acrimonious row involving the method by which I was to be punished for such a negligible offense as forsaking my lessons, deeming that I could glean something more consequential then knowledge of the rule of Ecthelion I, by harkening to what sagacity Mithrandir had to convey. It was also beside that table that I became wretchedly ill after Boromir had successfully managed to thoroughly intoxicate me on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday. Yet in this hour I have but one destination and refuse to be deterred by agonizing recollections brought on by the mere gazing at a relic of the House of Stewards.  
  
Where memory failed, instinct consumed, guiding me to an ostensibly inconsequential chamber, one of scores along the corridors. The hefty wood door that had served as a formidable bower, guarding an unfathomable number of secrets, not suffering a soul to enter, was blissfully unlocked and I was unhindered in crossing the threshold. I surmise that I ought to have questioned the status of the door but I was consumed with the imminent task thus I entertained no such meditation, merely absorbing every minute detail of the room, as a parched man deliriously ingests water.  
  
As in my memory the walls were a pristine ivory hue and in the center of the chamber there remained a bed, shrouded, in part, by a gossamer canopy. Even the consoling scent that I shall eternally associate with my mother, the aroma of the sea, lingered in the air. My eyes strayed to a bureau standing in the corner of the room, blanketed, as all else in the room, by a thin film of dust. I strode over to it, clasping the handle of intertwined strands of metal and pulled the door open. I was deluged in dust as I peered inside the chest, my eyes encountering the somber shades of formal robes, the vivid shades of frocks my mother delighted in gazing at, reminiscing about her youth by the shores of the tumultuous sea, and the midnight cobalt of a particular mantle, stars embroidered with auriferous thread at the throat and hem. I, with every semblance of tranquility though my insides turbulent and my emotions treacherous, reached inside the bureau and extracted the indigo mantle.  
  
From the precise moment I laid eyes upon Eowyn of Rohan, perceiving that her haunting loveliness was surpassed only by her utter, supreme grief, I could image her clad in this mantle...  
  
She stands upon the ivory walls, a lone beacon in the watches of the night, the wind mercilessly whipping at the flaxen tendrils of her hair, the gale toying with the hem of the mantle in which she is arrayed. I possessed an instinct that I would encounter her here: upon the walls, when I awoke to her absence. I have oft inquired of her how she can abide the wind and invariably she bestows upon me her enchanting, wan smile and replies, never one to waste breathe on elaborate articulations:  
"You neglect to remember, Faramir, that I was born and raised in Rohan," she inevitably replies, casting her eyes toward the north, to where the plains eternally sway and the wind relentlessly besieges the terrain.  
Now she is poised upon the walls and I am content to observe her and harken to her scarily audible murmurings to the child, swathed in blankets she bears in her arms. Our child.  
"It was in the garden and upon these walls that Father first fell in love with Mother but Mother's heart belonged to another though he did not return these sentiments. Mother was very foolish indeed not to view Father for the man he truly was, a man that was enraptured and transfixed by her (or so he says he was). Father granted Mother this raiment that had belonged to his mother and draped it around Mother's shoulders yet still she did not comprehend the ways of her own heart..." she softly vocalizes.  
I traverse to length of the walls to where she is positioned and gently rest my hand upon her shoulder.  
"He's finally asleep," she whispers, motioning towards the babe in clutched to her lithe form. "I did not know children could shriek so sonorously. I would not be amazed if he woke up the entire Citadel."  
"Why did you not awake me?" I tenderly caress the nape of her elegant, white neck. "You comprehend fully well that I can lure him into a deep slumber," I taunt her, my tone steeped in boundless adoration for both mother and son.  
She veers around to face me, resting her auriferous head upon my chest, emitting a sigh. "You need your rest," she replies.  
I enfold her and my son in my arms, savoring the utter and beautiful silence that hangs between us, broken only by the cadence of the shallow breaths of our slumbering child.  
No articulations are required to confirm the love we possess for one another, declarations would be fatuous, and even the most superior of word weavers could not grasp with ink and adjectives what love truly is. It would be impossible...  
  
I was abruptly drawn from my reverie, a tender moment that may never come to be, and returned to the realm of reality, as bleak and dour as it may be. I know not what wrought that moment, a figment of my imagination, a mirage that maliciously mocked the dismal state of my current life, only knew that I would savor it for ever and anon. Yet daydreams, gossamer and translucent, are a poor substitute for real life. Yet for now they are all I possess.  
I traced the intricate embroidery upon the collar and hem of the raiment ere swiftly rising, granting my mother's chambers, where I perceive my mother's spirit still lingers, a terminal, sorrowful look and then depart.  
I was resolute.  
  
And yes for all you asking, I have seen the light since I wrote that author's note about my not liking David Wenham and can fully appreciate him for the exceedingly, extremely, v. v. v. handsome man that he is. I have repented for that comment and beg for forgiveness.  
  
Thanks to Dragon Girl Revlis! 


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